The Siege of Minas Tirith
by Morwen Tindomerel
Summary: AU. Movie canon with Book interpolations and, brace yourselves an OFC. Finished.
1. Arrival

'_Oh good going, Pip, he'd just forgiven you for the business with the Palantir and now you have to go and make him angry again!'_ Peregrine Took trotted unhappily after Gandalf down the long hall and out the big doors, shooting uncertain glances over his shoulder back at Boromir's father, hunched again in his chair cradling the broken horn.

_'But he already knew Boromir was dead'._ Pippin told himself defensively as they emerged into the white sunlight of the Fountain Court. _'Doesn't he have a  
right to know what happened? He's Boromir's father isn't he?'_

The wizard made a sharp right turn around the big building and through an arch into a narrow yard full of boxes and barrels and baskets of all kinds of food. Pippin hooked an apple from an open barrel and bit gratefully into it - after three solid days even Lembas bread palls - then grabbed a little round cheese from a basket and hurried on after Gandalf.

The wizard plunged down a sunken flight of steps, like a rabbit into a hole, and through a small wooden door. Pippin caught just a glimpse of a long, arched  
passage of white stone, lit by lamps, before following Gandalf through another door into a plain little room with small windows set high and maps and plans pinned to its white walls. A table half buried under a heap of paper stood in the middle of the room and behind it sat a tall Man dressed in black ensigned with a white tree like the guards. He looked up at came to his feet as they entered.

"How long has he been like this?" Gandalf demanded of him.

Amazingly the man seemed to know exactly what the wizard was talking about; "Ever since word came of Boromir's death," he answered.

"No one sent any word." Suddenly Gandalf didn't look angry any more, just very sad and rather tired. He leaned heavily on his staff. "I feared Denethor would take it so. How did he find out?"

"From Faramir." the Man answered quietly. "Thirteen days ago half the city heard the great horn's call, faintly on the wind from the North. And three days  
later Faramir rode in from Osgiliath with the pieces of the horn in his scrip and a strange story of seeing Boromir's body laid out for burial in a small grey  
boat sailing down the River to the sea."

Pippin perched himself on one of the stools set against the wall by the door and bit into his cheese. _'Thirteen days, has it really only been thirteen days? It seems longer, a lifetime almost. Strider said they'd put Boromir into one of the boats and sent it over those awful falls. It can't have still been afloat!'_

"It must have been a seeing," Gandalf was saying,"Boromir's companions did indeed lay him in a boat but they sent it over the Rauros and nothing survives  
those falls. He is safe at the bottom of the Anduin where no Orc and other filthy creature can trouble him."

Pippin tasted salt with his cheese from the tears running down his face. Boromir was gone. Not just far away like Merry and Strider and Gimli and Legolas and  
Sam and Frodo, but gone. Gone forever, they'd never see him again. (1) So much had happened since that awful fight in the glade that the finality of it hadn't had a chance to sink in before. Boromir was dead, and it was all their fault, His and Merry's.

"Your companion seems in some distress, Mithrandir." the Man observed.

"What's this?" an arm in a flowing white sleeve went around him. "There, there Pippin, my lad," the wizard said kindly, adding over his shoulder. "He's  
exhausted. We've been riding hard for three days. And he is grieved. He saw Boromir fall."

"And being a Hobbit no doubt very hungry." the Man said briskly. "I can do something about that at least."

The Man, whose name it seemed was Hurin and was somebody important here in Minas Tirith, (2) took them down the long passage and out a door at the far end  
into a narrow alley lined with tall buildings. Then through an arch and down a flight of steps to a small house, like a little castle with a dome and turrets,  
clinging like a limpet to the side of the mountain.

They sat down at a round table in the large room under the dome, which was painted blue with a gold sun and silver stars, and Men in green and white brought them cold meat, fruit, cheese and bread to eat and ale to drink. Pippin  
practically had the food to himself as his companions seemed much more interested in talking.

"It's not just Denethor," Hurin told Gandalf, "the entire city is in shock. Boromir was the hope that gave us the heart to fight on, without him - " the Man  
shook his head.

"There is Faramir!" Gandalf snapped.

Hurin smiled wryly. "No need to bite my head off, Mithrandir, I haven't forgotten my younger cousin." His face went grave. "I know Faramir's worth, but  
all his life he has been overshadowed by Boromir. And though he is as brave and resourceful, and far wiser in old lore, he is not the born leader of Men his  
brother was."

"There are few who are." Gandalf conceded. Then added flatly: "Aragorn is in Rohan."

Hurin's face lit up as if somebody had fired a torch inside it. Pippin stared in awe, meat half chewed in his mouth. "The Dundadan is here in the South? That is great news, Mithrandir!"

Gandalf's eyes narrowed. "You did not know? Denethor did."

Hurin blinked. "No word of Aragorn son of Arathorn has come to us by Man or bird, or I would have heard it as well. Denethor must have Seen him. He has the  
long sight and perceives more than other Men even those of the Ancient Blood."

"Hmmm." said Gandalf.

"The Dunadan must come to Minas Tirith, Mithrandir," Hurin said urgently. "I know the dangers but only he can put the heart and the spirit back into  
our people."

"Boromir wanted him to come," Pippin said suddenly remembering things he'd overheard while the Company was still together, "but Strider wouldn't." Man and  
wizard looked at him in surprise, almost disbelief. "I heard them arguing about it many times." he finished defensively.

"So...The Steward's heir desired the return of the King." Gandalf mused. "But would he have set his will against his father's?" he sighed. "Perhaps it is as well  
we shall never know," and turned briskly to Hurin. "Aragorn will come, but in some way no one, not even Denethor, will expect." His tone turned grim. "Better he had come unheralded, but it seems that was not meant to be."

"Why?" Pippin asked worriedly, "What's wrong with old Strider? And why does Lord Denethor hate him when he doesn't even know him?"

Hurin smiled wryly at that. "Oh he knows him all right."

"What is the point of eavesdropping, Peregrin Took, if you pay no attention to what you hear!" Gandalf demanded. "Have you been walking with eyes and ears  
tight shut all these months? Don't you understand Aragorn is Isildur's Heir and the rightful King of Gondor!"

"Oh." Pippin said, rather blankly then his eyes opened wide in sudden understanding. "Oh!"

The servants were just clearing away the empty dishes and cups when a third Man came in and said very formally to Hurin, "The Lady Idril, my Lord."

The Woman behind him was much taller than a Hobbit-lass but looked small next to these towering Men of Gondor. She was richly but somberly dressed in brown and black with lots of embroidery and fur on her sleeves. A small, pale, pointed face peeked out from beneath a dark veil, held in place by a wide circlet of gold and she wore a great deal of heavy gold jewelry, much more than the Lady Eowyn had done.

Hurin and Gandalf both rose so Pippin did too. "I thought I'd find you here, Mithrandir," the Woman said dryly in a surprisingly deep voice, "conspiring with Hurin as usual."

Pippin looked quickly at Gandalf but the wizard's face showed only bland courtesy. "How may I serve you, Lady?"

"It is rather my part to serve you, my Lord Mithrandir." she answered. "My father the Steward begs you to pardon his hard words as the foolishness of an old Man in great grief, and to accept the hospitality of the Citadel as has always been the custom."

"Foolishness?" Gandalf answered as dryly. "Denethor will die long before he sinks into dotage. Even his grief for his son he uses to further his purposes."

"And why not?" the Lady said lightly, almost mockingly. "Do you not use every tool that comes to your hand to further your ends, my Lord Mithrandir? But for now at least your purposes are the same. Neither of you wishes to see Minas Tirith destroyed, is that not so?"

She turned her attention to Pippin and he found himself looking up into the strangest eyes he'd ever seen; yellow like a cat's, and fever bright. Yet at the same time cold, like the glittering snows of Caradhras. "My father spoke also of a Halfling who offered him service and got no answer, would that be  
you, Little Master, or is there another?"

Pippin cleared his throat. "That would be me, yes, my Lady. Peregrin Took of the Shire at your service." He bowed.

She made him a slight curtsey, a brief bending of head and knee, in return. "Welcome to Minas Tirith Master Peregrine. My father asks you to forgive his  
discourtesy and accepts your service - if you are still of the same mind?"

Pippin set his jaw and carefully did not look at Gandalf. "I am."

"Very well, for now you may lodge with the Lord Mithrandir - as long as he chooses to stay with us. If you will both follow me I will show you to the  
house prepared for you."

_'Oh dear'_ Pippin thought unhappily. _'What have I done? Am I going to have to stay here even after Gandalf goes home, maybe forever? What will Merry say?  
And my father! Oh, Pippin, you are a fool aren't you!'_

1. That's what he thinks. See 'The Return' by this author. (adv.)

2. Hurin of the Keys, who appears briefly in the Book and features prominently in this author's 'Rangers of  
the North' (adv.)


	2. Welcome

Two more Women, demure in dark dresses and veils and wearing rather less jewelry than the Lady, waited quietly in the entrance hall and followed silently as  
Gandalf and Pippin left the house with Idril. She led them back up the stairs and down a narrow lane between the massive Hall and a line of tall buildings, also of white stone, decorated with fretted carvings, little statues and high windows inset with colored glass. A guard stood at a door near the end of the row. He opened it for them and they passed into quite a grand sitting room with hangings of dull gold silk and a few pieces of splendid, over-sized furniture. A wide stair, with intricately carved balustrades of dark wood, led up to a big room lit by three open arches of stone looking out onto a north facing balcony.

There were more Women, dressed in dark silks, there. One was tucking a brocaded counterpane into place on the big red curtained bed, and another watched a Man in black and white clothes lay a fire in the stone hearth.

"This will be your room, Master Peregrine," said Lady Idril. "My Lord Mithrandir will have the great chamber above."

The Man finished his task and left. Idril glanced at the Women and they followed. Her heavy skirts whipped the air as she whirled abruptly upon Pippin, fixing him with an intense yellow stare. "My father said you saw Boromir die. Tell me, tell me  
everything!"

Pippin looked at Gandalf for help but the Wizard stared eastward through the windows and wouldn't meet his eye. There was nothing to do but answer her as well as he could without giving away Frodo or the quest. "We were ambushed by Uruk Hai out of Isengard." He began hesitantly. "My cousin Merry and I were  
separated from the others, we were all scattered through the woods looking for - for one of our Company who'd wandered off, when they hit us. Merry and I ran  
but wherever we turned there were more Orcs. We just couldn't get away from them." he began to shake at the memory and sat down abruptly on the chest at the foot of the bed. The Lady knelt beside him her cat's eyes fixed on his face. As he stumbled on:

"We were surrounded, trapped, when Boromir suddenly burst out of the forest and cut the Orcs down. He told us to run and we did, but the Uruks were everywhere.  
Boromir killed ten, twenty of them, and Merry and I did what we could to help, but there were always more. He blew his great horn for help. The others heard and  
started to fight their way to us but they had hundreds of Orcs in their way. Maybe Boromir could have held out long enough for them to reach us if one of the Uruks hadn't had a bow -" The vision of those thick black arrows thumping into Boromir's body burned before his eyes.

Suddenly Pippin was back at Parth Galen, unconscious of the room around him or the Woman listening so intently to his every word. "The first arrow made him stagger, but he recovered and cut down more Orcs, they couldn't get near him. Then the second arrow hit him and he fell to his knees right in front of us. Boromir _looked_ at us, he was trying to tell us something - to run maybe - but we couldn't. I couldn't move, not even to throw the rock in my hand or draw my sword. Boromir was dying but I couldn't move! Neither could Merry. He got back up - I don't know how - killed another Orc or maybe two, then the third arrow struck right between the others and he went down again. I knew, we both knew, he wouldn't be able to get up again. Merry screamed and drew his sword, I did too, we tried to get to Boromir but the Uruks just swept us up and carried us off - we couldn't stop them, we were too small - they ran away with us and left him there to die."

The sob Pippin had been fighting to hold back all this time burst out of him. "It was all our fault!" he blurted. "The Uruks wanted us Hobbits! they weren't  
interested in the others. If we'd let ourselves be caught Boromir wouldn't have died!"

Then the Lady put her arms around him and he could tell from the  
sound of her voice she was crying too. "That's sheer nonsense, Peregrine Took!" she said. "Do you think they could have risked leaving a warrior like Boromir alive to pursue them? Orcs are not such fools!" She took his face between her  
hands and fixed him with wet eyes that were no longer either feverish or frightening. "Boromir's death is not your fault. You could not have saved him  
by surrendering yourselves. Nor would he have stood by and let you do any such thing!"

Pippin smiled damply at the thought. "That's true."

"Boromir died for you and your Merry because he  
thought you were worth it," she said. "You can repay him by proving he was right." Then she smiled through her tears suddenly looking much younger  
and nicer than she had before. "Most of all you mustn't torture yourself with needless guilt. Boromir wouldn't like that at all. He'd want you to be happy."

"I know you're right." Pippin told her and sobbed again. "But I miss him so!"

Idril hugged him. "Oh so do I. But he would want and expect us to go on - and we must not disappoint him!" and then she began to cry too.

Talking to Lady Idril made Pippin feel better. He was still unhappy about Boromir of course. And maybe still a little guilty – but he did feel a bit better. After she left he looked hesitantly at Gandalf.

The wizard smiled gently at him. "You have had a time haven't you, Pippin my lad?" And Pippin, for all he was trying to pull himself back together, burst into tears all over again. Gandalf crossed the room to sit on the chest beside  
him and put a comforting arm around his shoulders; "My poor Pippin. I would not have spoken so harshly in Meduseld had you not frightened me half to death."

"I know," Pippin gulped, "I could have given away Frodo and the Ring."

"And done yourself irreparable harm as well." The wizard answered grimly. He smiled reassuringly as Pippin looked up at him in alarm. "Fortunately the  
contact was brief. And Hobbits, especially those of Took blood, are made of tougher stuff than even the Wise deem."

"I won't do it again." It was a vow - and not just about Seeing Stones either. He'd been very foolish indeed, he saw that now. He hadn't understood before  
but he did now. He was a member of the Company of the Ring, a sworn enemy of the Dark Lord. And while he wasn't much in himself he was close to some very  
powerful and important people; the White Wizard and the Ringbearer, which meant any foolish thing he did could have terrible consequences  
for all Middle Earth. He had to be careful - and he would be from now on.

And that reminded him: "You're not angry with me then, Gandalf? I know you told me to be silent but Denethor already knew Boromir was dead - and I didn't say  
anything about either Frodo or Aragorn."

"No you didn't." Gandalf chuckled ruefully. "Poor, Pippin! I hope it's a long time before you find yourself in such a tight corner again, caught between two such terrible old Men!" He sobered. "Offering Denethor your service was a noble and generous act and I should not have spoiled it by treating you like a child." The wizard sighed. "The Lord Steward and I have never been friends, but now I distrust the strength of his will and the temper of his mind. Grief and anger I expected, and his hatred of Aragorn is no news either, but this apathy that grips him is most unlike the Denethor I know. Whatever else he may be he was always a fighter." Gandalf looked seriously down at Pippin. "I would not willingly entrust anyone I love to his care as he is now."

Warmed clear through by Gandalf's words Pippin cast his mind back to the hall and to Denethor. The wizard was right, there was more and worse there than simple grief, or even the rather frightening hate and anger he'd shown towards Aragorn. Something was very, very wrong with Boromir's father.

"Something's been done to him." Pippin said slowly, thinking out loud. "He's hurt inside somehow, and he doesn't want to do anything but huddle in a corner and  
nurse his pain."

Gandalf gave him a startled, almost respectful, look. "That's very perceptive of you, Pippin my lad. I do believe you've put your finger on it." He looked  
thoughtful, "But how wounded, and by whom?"

That Pippin couldn't answer. "Can't you help him, Gandalf?"

The wizard shook his head, grimly rueful. "No chance of it. Denethor would never let me close enough to help him - assuming it were in my power. At least Idril will  
recover now, thanks to you, Pippin. The fever is broken and she will heal. But then she comes of stubborn stock that does not give in easily to despair - or let go of what is theirs. I wish I could say the same of Denethor."

Pippin blinked. "But he's her father isn't he? Don't they have the same family?"

"Foster father." Gandalf corrected and smiled crookedly. "By blood she's closer kin to Aragorn than she is to the Stewards.

The Hobbit blinked again. "You mean she's royalty too, like Strider? But then why isn't she Queen of Gondor?"

"Because the Gondorim don't have ruling queens - and her family is no longer accounted royal in any case." The wizard answered tone sharpening. "See here, Master Pippin, I have no time now to instruct you in the history and laws of Gondor but must be about other business!" he stood. "Chiefly the gathering of news, Hurin but touched but the surface. Where is Faramir? Surely not still on the marches now he is heir!" halfway to the door Gandalf turned back for a quick smile. "Get some sleep, Pippin, you've had three long days and two nights with little rest. But sleeping or waking stay here and don't go straying about!"


	3. The Beacons

Denethor, ever conscious of his daughter's rank as First Lady of Gondor always required her to dress in a fashion that became it. Idril herself tolerated the inconvenience of cumbersome gowns and heavy jewels with the resignation of long habit. And what if they didn't become her? She'd never had much claim to beauty - and now had no reason to make the best of such looks as she had.

One piece of jewelry she retained when her maids took the others to put away in the row of chests that filled a whole table in her dressing room and that was the locket signed with Boromir's cipher, a simple tengwar 'B'. She opened it, indifferent to the presence of the maid unraveling the intricate braided coils of her hair and combing it smooth.

The good ladies of Gondor could say whatever they liked of her as long as she, Idril, didn't have to listen to their twitterings. And she did not. She'd not been given to girlish gossip and confidences even when she was a girl, and certainly was not now. Her maids in waiting learned quickly to speak only when spoken to. She did not consider this cruel or unreasonable. The little  
creatures were free to gossip and giggle as much as they wished whenever they were out of her immediate presence - as three of the four were now, and Luinil  
would be joining them soon with a nice fresh bit of gossip to share.

Inside the locket and clearly visible to the maid looking over her mistress's shoulder, was a beautiful ivory miniature of Boromir. Doubtless Luinil would take this as proof that Idril's feelings for the Steward's Heir had not been those of a sister. And why shouldn't she? For it was the truth. And the only person in all Gondor who had never suspected anything of the kind was dear, dense Boromir himself.

But that was her fault rather than his. She'd never tried to make him see - fool that she was! To expect a Man absorbed in matters of life and death such as the  
war in the East and the undeclared war between his own father and brother to notice what was right under his nose without a bit of help was quite unreasonable.

Father had seen it all right - and been delighted. Idril knew very well why but didn't hold it against Denethor. It had in its way, been an elegant solution to  
the problem of ending forever the pretensions of the Line of Isildur - assuming this Aragorn actually existed at all. (1) It was all moot now anyway. Boromir was dead, as they all would be soon, and Gondor in ruins. There was nothing left for them now but to make an end worthy of the Heirs of the Kings of Men.

Her hand closed tightly over the locket. They could not win but they could make Sauron's victory come hard - that was what Mithrandir wanted and Idril was with  
him hand to glove. Elendil's blood, however thin and dilute, in her veins demanded it - and Boromir would have expected no less of his city and his sister.

Suddenly the dressing room door slammed open without a knock. Idril's anger vanished instantly at the sight of Pharinzil's terrified face. "Oh my Lady, come and see! Come and see!"

Idril and Luinil followed the agitated girl through bedchamber, antechamber, presence chamber and gallery, out on to the terrace where Annalind and Faelivrin  
huddled, clutching each other and staring north-east. Idril followed Pharinzil's trembling finger to the twisted column of icy light rising from Minas Morgul  
and was at first surprised, then slightly alarmed, to find she felt no fear but a sense, almost, of relief. Even perhaps of anticipation. She was wise enough to know this was not courage but the fearlessness of despair, and so both sin and folly, but  
she couldn't bring herself to care.

"Well," she said calmly, to her terrified maidens, "at least the waiting is over."

...

Pippin didn't expect to get another wink of sleep, what with his long afternoon nap and now the fears for Frodo and the rest of them kindled by that awful light. Even Gandalf was shaken which scared Pippin half to death. But to his surprise he dropped off the minute his head hit the pillow, comforted by the homely presence of Gandalf smoking quietly on the balcony, his eyes still fixed on the eastern mountains.

It was Gandalf who shook him awake in the dim grey predawn. "Get dressed and come with me, Pippin, I need your help." was all he said.  
Thoroughly astonished, but wanting badly to make up for his blunder with the Palantir, Pippin obeyed, shrugging into his clothes and then following the  
wizard through the little alleys winding their way between the service buildings and work yards behind the grand halls and mansions of the Citadel.

"Peregrin Took, my lad, there is a task now to be done." Gandalf told him over his shoulder keeping up a swift pace, "Another opportunity for one of the Shire-folk to prove their great worth.

"The Witch King has marched forth from Minas Morgul, already his army of Orcs and Trolls seeks to force a crossing over the Anduin. There is no time to be lost, the beacons must be lit, Gondor must call up her levies and summon her ally Rohan. But I fear Denethor, in this strange mood of his, will refuse to  
do what must be done - or at least not until it is too late."

The wizard came to a stop at last in an abandoned yard crowded with old crates and other debris, pointed upward. "See, there stands the beacon tower of Minas  
Tirith, high on the flanks of Mindolluin." He looked down, very seriously at Pippin. "That beacon must be fired, any delay could be fatal to Minas Tirith and all the Westlands. You must not fail me."

Pippin looked at the rugged mountainside. It was higher than he was used to but with plenty of hand and footholds. "Don't worry, Gandalf," he said confidently, "I'll get it done."

Pippin had grown up in the Green Hill Country, climbing its little rocky cliffs for sport with his friends and cousins. He'd even climbed the Redwall, a high hill in  
the North Farthing, on the very borders of the Shire. This mountain peak was easy by comparison, but he was careful to pace himself. It was much farther than he  
was used to and it wouldn't do to tire too soon.

When he got to the top he saw that there were two Men on watch nearby, sleepy eyed and drinking something from bowls, paying no attention to the ready laid pile of wood - and why should they? Luckily the rope holding the oil was frayed, it broke at a tug. Pippin threw the brass lamp into the pile then watched a moment to be sure the fire had taken hold, nearly singeing his toes before starting back down.

Gandalf was no longer in the little deserted yard but Hobbits have a good sense of direction, and one who'd been brought up in the tangled mazes of the Great Smial wasn't likely to lose either his head or his way in the winding alleys of the the Citadel. Pippin found the wizard on the outer wall smiling quietly to himself, his eyes on a bright little flame burning on a mountaintop some distance due west.

"Has something happened, Gandalf?" the Hobbit asked with an elaborate pretense of innocence that was probably wasted on the nearby sentries. But not on the  
wizard, his smile became a mischievous grin meant only for Pippin. "The beacons of Gondor are alight, calling for aid. See, there is fire on Amon Din, and a flame  
on Eilenach; and from there the alarm will go speeding  
west to Nardol, Erelas, Min-Rimmon, Calenhad, and finally the Halfirien on the borders of Rohan."

_'So I'll be seeing Merry again soon.'_ Pippin thought with satisfaction. _'But what about Aragorn, is  
it really a good idea for him to come here?'_ He quickly shrugged the thought away. _'Not my problem.  
Strider knows his own business.'  
_  
The sentry nearest them moved down the wall a space to whisper excitedly with some comrades. Gandalf leaned closer and spoke softly: "Thank you, Master Took."

"You're very welcome, my Lord Mithrandir," Pippin whispered back.

...

1. Idril believes, probably correctly, that Denethor was plotting to make Boromir King. His eldest son was well loved, in a way Denethor himself had never been,  
and marriage to Idril, last descendant of the Anarioni, (by way of princes disqualified for the throne by their mixed blood) would have forged a tie  
with the former dynasty. It would have required new statutes approved by the Council and people of Gondor but he might well have pulled it off.


	4. Faramir

"Best we make ourselves scarce for a while, Pippin." Gandalf said as they left the wall, going down a flight of steps to the ground. "Denethor will not be pleased, and he knows me well enough to see my hand in this."

Pippin felt a sudden qualm. Was it wrong to side with Gandalf against Denethor now that he was in the Steward's service? But Gandalf was his friend, not to mention the only person he knew in this whole city, he couldn't just abandon him.

"Don't worry, my lad," the wizard said kindly, reading his mind, "you are no oathbreaker, for you have not yet taken the oath only offered to do so. And I promise once you are so bound I will not ask anything of you that would go against your duty to your lord."

"Thank you." Pippin said with heartfelt relief and gratitude as they passed under an arch between tower and hall into the Court of the Fountain. "So where are we going?"

"First to visit Shadowfax and then down to a tavern I know in the First Circle. I have spoken with the lords of the City, now I would hear what the people have to say."

Tavern… that sounded promising. "Do they brew good beer here?"

The wizard shook his head, "Just passable. I would recommend the wine over either beer or ale."

Gandalf's tavern proved to be a great grey stone building with two wings embracing a pleasant bit of garden. They sat at a small table in a sort of pillared porch overlooking the garth, slowly emptying a jug of red wine, (which really was very good - almost as good as Old Wineyards) and chatting with the  
other customers.

There were tall, dark haired people, proud and light eyed, who reminded Pippin of Strider but more who were rather shorter and thicker, often with dark eyes and swarthy complexions. And even a few as fair haired and blue eyed as the Rohirrim. They all spoke in a formal, old fashioned way - just as Boromir had - and were terribly polite, calling Gandalf 'Lord Mithrandir' and Pippin 'Little Master'. And they were scared, every one of them. Even more scared than Pippin himself because they understood what was happening so much better. They were a brave people these Gondorim, had to be with that terror on their borders, but losing Boromir had torn the heart out of them - and Lord Denethor wasn't doing anything  
about stepping into the breach, not even sending for Boromir's brother Faramir, who was apparently off fighting somewhere. Not but the folk seemed to have  
some doubts about him.

"The Lord Faramir is a fine Man, no one questions that," An old Man told Gandalf. He is wise and noble as one of the High Lords of Old but he's not the warrior his brother was - and a warrior is what we need now, not a learned loremaster."

"He is gentle and kind and very handsome," the old Man's daughter put in thoughtfully, "but he doesn't shed light around him as Boromir did. It doesn't lift your heart just to look at him."

Pippin knew exactly what she meant. "You felt safe with Boromir," he agreed, "no matter how bad things got you knew somehow he'd get you through it." He'd be just like old Strider really in that respect, or Gandalf. Then it all came back and Pippin's eyes filled with tears. "He got us through, Merry and me, but he couldn't save himself," he choked back a sob.

The Man and Woman looked at him in surprise. Pippin couldn't talk, being too busy trying not to cry, so it was Gandalf who explained: "Peregrin traveled with Boromir, and was with him when he died."

There was a murmur and stirring among the Gondorim at the nearer tables and a number of people edged closer. "Could you - could you tell us what happened, please, Little Master?" a Woman asked hesitantly.

Pippin looked at Gandalf, who nodded slightly then he took a deep breath and began. By the time he'd finished his story every Man and Woman in the Old Guesthouse was clustered around their table and there wasn't a dry  
eye to be seen - including Gandalf's.

"He was a great Man with a great heart and died a death worthy of him." the wizard said softly. "Nor was his life wasted, Pippin. Had he not blooded the Uruks as he did they might not have simply fled with their prizes but stayed to hunt out and slay your other companions."

Pippin managed a nod, speechless but comforted. He didn't like to think of Boromir's last effort as wasted.

"But it is bitter that he should be taken from us now, just when we need him most." said an older Woman standing behind Gandalf's chair.

"It is." he agreed. "But give Faramir a chance. True he is no Boromir, but he has both courage and wisdom. Give him the trust you gave his brother and I promise you he will not disappoint you."

It was just short of noon when the wizard and the Hobbit finally left the tavern - to find people hurrying past on their way to the wall with others whispering fearfully together in the arcaded porches of the nearby buildings.

"What it is?" Gandalf called after one of the hurrying Men, "What's happened?"

"Nazgul!" he threw back over his shoulder, "four or five of them above the causeway forts!"

The wizard stood frozen for a moment, his eyes focused on something far away, then abruptly blinked back to life. "Faramir! Pippin, run up to the stable and fetch me Shadowfax. Bring him to the Great Gate as fast as you can."

Pippin did run all the way up the six levels of the city. By the time he got to the stable he had scarcely enough breath left to gasp out: "Shadowfax, Gandalf needs you!" The great stallion lifted up his head, his dark eye alert and eager as it fixed on the Hobbit. Pippin dragged open the stall door, pulled over a mounting block and scrambled without grace onto the broad back, clutching a double handful of mane. "Now, quick, down to the Great Gate."

And Shadowfax launched himself like an arrow from a bow tearing down the winding road to the first level in a bare fraction of the time it had taken Pippin to run up it. After the first moment Pippin released his death grip on his handfuls of mane, so smooth was the great steed's gait that he felt in no danger of falling despite the breathtaking speed and the lack of saddle or stirrups. As Gandalf had once said; if Shadowfax consented to bear you he made it his business to see you stayed on his back.

They barely paused in the great square behind the City gate, halting just long enough for Gandalf to swing himself up behind Pippin, then the three of them flashed through the half opened gates and out onto the Pelennor field. In the distance ahead Pippin saw a troop of horsemen, some in armor others in dark leather, under attack from Nazgul mounted on fell beasts like the one Legolas had killed over Sarn Gebir. As he watched hideous bat winged creatures stooped upon the riders to snatch up one or two at a time, horse and all, and hurl them again to earth to be broken or trampled by their comrades.

Clutching again at Shadowfax's mane with a worse terror than that of falling, Pippin wondered what even Gandalf could do against four or five the Wraiths and their mounts. He soon found out. As they neared the fleeing horsemen the wizard raised his staff and beams of fierce white light broke from its tip striking the Nazgul aside as they stooped upon their prey.

The fell beasts wheeled, screaming in frustration, and gave way. Shadowfax changed direction heading now back to the City with the fugitives close behind. The gates swung all the way open and they thundered inside, filling the square with exhausted and shaken Men and horses, as the folk of the City came hurrying down the side streets to greet them. Even Shadowfax was slightly winded, dipping his head to drink from the square's fountain.

"Mithrandir!" a voice cried and Gandalf twisted to look over his shoulder at the speaker. "They broke through our defenses," the voice continued. "They've taken the bridge and the west bank. Battalions of Orcs are crossing the river."

The fair haired captain from the Citadel pushed his way through the horsemen. "It is as the Lord Denethor predicted! Long has he foreseen this doom!"

"Foreseen and done nothing!" Gandalf flared. Finally Shadowfax finished his drink and wheeled away from the fountain to let his riders face a tired looking Man also on horseback.

This had to be Faramir, Boromir's brother, Pippin decided. He was tall and fair haired just as Boromir had been. Very like indeed he first thought, then their eyes met and Faramir's weren't like Boromir's eyes at all but like Elves' eyes; wise and gently sad. They stared back at Pippin, and into him, with an intensity that quickly became uncomfortable. Pippin turned his head aside, wishing the Man would look  
elsewhere.

Gandalf said "Faramir?" in a puzzled sort of way then, enlightened: "This is not the first Halfling to have crossed your path!"

"No." said the Man

Pippin looked up eagerly at that. "You've seen Frodo and Sam?"

Faramir nodded, those eyes still fixed on Pippin but somehow less unnerving now he knew why he was being stared at.

"Where? When?" Gandalf demanded with a strange mixture of anxiety and hope in his voice.

"In Ithilien, not two days ago," Faramir answered.

Two days. Just two days ago Frodo and Sam had been alive and well. Pippin looked up at Gandalf. The wizard too seemed reassured, even happy. But then Faramir said: "Mithrandir, they've taken the road to the Morgul Vale." and Gandalf's face froze.

"And then the Pass of Cirith Ungol?" he asked and was answered by a grim, silent nod from Faramir.

This wasn't good, Pippin could see that plainly enough, but why? "What does that mean?" he pleaded. "What's wrong?"

Gandalf said urgently: "Faramir, tell me everything."

"My Lord," it was the captain of the Citadel again, speaking to Faramir. "You must report to your father at once." and there was a tone of warning in his voice  
that Pippin didn't quite understand.

Nor did he understand the sudden, grim set of Faramir's face as he answered. "I intend no delay, for my tidings are dire indeed. Ride to the Citadel with me, Mithrandir, we will speak as we go."


	5. Oathtaking

Only they didn't get any talking done on the ride up to the citadel after all, for as they left the square, with Gandalf and Faramir riding side by side, the people on the street raised a cheer that made the Man and Pippin both start and Gandalf smile as if well pleased.

The clamor continued all the way up the City. Pippin, buoyed up by the resounding relief and joy, grinned and waved cheerfully. Lord Faramir seemed very much surprised and deeply moved, judging by the tears in his eyes and slightly stiff way he bowed his acknowledgement. But Gandalf accepted the ovation as easily as he did applause for his fireworks.

Pippin heard the people cry the name Faramir, and Mithrandir too, but they also called out a longer, more complicated name that he couldn't quite make out.  
"What's that they're saying, Gandalf? ernie ferryeth or something like that."

"Ernil i Pherianath." the wizard replied, eyes glinting, "means 'Prince of the Halflings' for such they take you to be, Peregrin Took."

"You don't say!" for a moment Pippin was a little dismayed, then shrugged it aside. No doubt the mistake would straighten itself out in due time

The Lady Idril met them at the top of the steps to the Court of the Tree, very grand in wine red with a massy jewelry of of ruby and pearl, including a diadem atop her veil. "Our father asks that you wait upon him at once," she said to Faramir.

"Such was my intention." he answered. "I bring grave news, Idril."

"None we might not guess without your telling, I suspect." she answered briskly and turned to Gandalf: "My father asks that you attend him as well, my Lord  
Mithrandir, for he would seek your council."

The wizard gave a little snort of disbelief then took Faramir, who didn't seem entirely steady on his feet, by the arm and guided him towards the Hall.  
Pippin would have followed had Idril not pinned him to the spot with a stern stare. "As for you, Peregrin Took, have you forgotten you're to make your oath to the Lord Steward in less than an hour?"

In fact he had and his face showed it eloquently. Idril visibly suppressed a smile and held out her hand. "Come with me, Little Master, we must arm you."

She led him back to the lodgings he shared with Gandalf with the four other Women from yesterday trailing behind them. "I will stand as your sponsor," Idril explained when they reached his chamber, ""Mithrandir and my father are not friends, as no doubt you've gathered, and the less he's reminded of your connection with our visiting wizard the better." Behind her the other Women took the arms and armor Pippin had piled on the table the night before and laid them out neatly on the bed.

"Remove those odd garments of yours if you please," said the Lady.

"Uh - er…" Pippin stammered, gravely taken aback.

Idril laughed. "The upper ones only, you may retain the shirt and breeches."  
Greatly relieved Pippin pulled off his coat and started untying his scarf.  
"It is the custom of our country for ladies to arm squire or knight before he gives oath," she explained. "Is it otherwise in your land, Prince Peregrin?"

"Er...I really couldn't say," he stammered. "We Hobbits don't make much use of arms as a rule, barring bow and arrow for hunting and the like."

"A happy land," she commented and looked at him thoughtfully. "How did you come to leave it, Prince?"

"I'm not a prince," Pippin said quickly. "I really don't know how that notion got round - I'm sure I never said anything of the kind."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "My kinsman Hurin told me you were heir to the Lord of the Halfling Country."

"I -" Pippin began, paused to think then said with a note of surprise in his voice:  
"You know, I suppose he's right at that. My father's the Thain - as we call it - and he stands for the King who's gone and leads the Shire muster at need and the  
like."

"Then he is your lord." Idril said. One of her Women handed her a long tunic of quilted black leather with sleeves made of tiny metal rings, rather like what Boromir had worn. She helped him on with it. Over it went a long black surcoat with the white tree embroidered on the chest and silver decorating the hems. Then there were black gloves and armguards like Boromir's, of tooled leather  
decorated with gold, as was the sword belt. The Lady got down on her knees to buckle it around him then kissed him on the cheek.

"And that is customary too." She said, laughing at his startled expression and got to her feet. "Your sword interests me, Pippin." She continued taking it from one of the women. "It has the look of Dunedain work. Where did you come by it?"

Now there was an awkward question. "Strider, one of our companions, a Ranger of the North, gave it to me," Pippin answered carefully.

Idril showed him a design of stars and a sword etched on the blade. "This is the device of the House of the Black Sword, descended from Turin Turambar, who had their seat long ago in the North." (1)

"Oh… er... is it?" Pippin stammered. "I'm afraid I don't know how Strider came by it." He doubted she believed him but she put the sword back in its sheath and handed it over.

He hung it from his new belt and the Lady took his Elf dagger from her Woman. "This is not the work of Men at all - Elf made?"

Pippin nodded. "It was parting gift from the Lady of Lorien." That caused a flutter among Idril's Women and even she looked startled for a passing instant. "You have guested in the Golden Wood? You must tell me about it sometime -" then she shot a look at the clock above the bed, "But not now! Come, Peregrin, we must hurry. It  
wouldn't do to be late."

...

Gandalf brushed past them on his way out with a face like a thunderstorm as they came into the Hall. Pippin winced and he heard the Lady sigh with something very like exasperation.

Denethor was standing in front of his black throne, washed and shaved and looking very different from yesterday, he even smiled at Pippin. Lord Faramir was off to the side looking bleak and unhappy and the tension in the room tingled like sleet on Pippin's skin. The three of them, Faramir, Denethor and Gandalf, must have just had a terrible fight. He wondered what about.

Pippin stopped when Idril's hand tightened on his shoulder, some paces short of the dais, and bowed. Denethor bowed back.

"My Lord," Idril said in a clear voice that rang the length of the big room without being in the least loud, "I bring before you Peregrin, son of Paladin Lord of the Land of the Halfings, who asks leave to enter the service of the White Tower."

"Welcome Peregrin son of Paladin of the Halflings." Denethor answered. "I thank you for your offer and accept it gladly. For we will have need of all folk of courage and good will, great or small, in the days to come." Denethor sat down on his throne and looked at Pippin expectantly.

Idril pressed down on his shoulder and he knelt feeling totally foolish but determined, and began to recite the words she'd taught him: "Here do I swear fealty  
and service to Gondor, in peace or war, in living or dying, from..." for a heart stopping moment he couldn't remember what came next, then he did: "from  
this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me." The solemnity of those last words made him feel very suddenly very sober indeed, and a little frightened.

"And I shall not forget it!" Denethor stood up and came down from his throne to stand right in front of Pippin. "Nor fail to reward that which is given." The Steward put his hand under Pippin's nose and remembering his instructions Pippin kissed the ring on it. Denethor cupped his chin and tilted his face upward so their eyes met. He was not, Pippin saw, taking this swearing entirely seriously, (and who could blame him?) but Denethor's amusement was not unkind as he finished the formula: "Fealty with love, valor with honor," he released Pippin and shot a cool look at his son, "Disloyalty with vengeance."

Oh dear. Pippin stood rather unhappily sensing the argument, whatever it was, between Faramir and his father was about to break out again. Denethor went to  
sit at a table set up nearby and laid for a meal. Faramir didn't move.

Pippin looked uncertainly at Idril, now standing to the left of the throne with her Women behind her, for instructions. She signed for him to stand but stay where he was.

"I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defenses, defenses that your brother long held intact." Denethor said, not looking at Faramir as he loaded his plate with fruit and cold meats.

"What would you have me do?" his son asked quietly.

"I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought. Osgiliath must be retaken." was the crisp reply. Idril frowned at her father.

Faramir said flatly; "My Lord, Osgiliath is overrun."

Denethor didn't seem to care. "Much must be risked in war." he gave Faramir another cold look. "Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his  
lord's will?"

The tension between the two Men was palpable. Pippin wondered why they were they so angry with each other. Nor did Idril look happy with either.

Faramir said with pain in his voice. "You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir had lived."

Pippin winced. That was just the wrong thing to say. Didn't Faramir know how his father was sure to answer, angry as he was just now?

Yet the father did hesitate for a moment before the words came out softly, almost reluctantly. "Yes, I wish that."

_'No you don't.'_Pippin thought. He looked at Faramir and his heart sank. Clearly the son did believe the father meant it. Tears stood in his eyes.

"Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead." Faramir said. He bowed, turned to leave and paused. "If I should return, think better of me, Father."

And Denethor replied, without looking up: "That will depend on the manner of your return."

Pippin stood still. He wanted desperately run after Faramir as he started down the long hall, or to pull at Denethor's sleeve and beg them both not to part like this, not now when any parting might be forever. But he didn't move. It wasn't his place.

Idril was not so bound. She shot her father a darkling look that reminded Pippin sharply of Strider, then swept after her brother followed by her inevitable bevy of shadows. Leaving Pippin alone in the grand, white stone hall with a clutch of silent, statue-like Menservants and a father pretending he didn't care he'd just broken his son's heart.

...

1. In my Movieverse AU the swords Aragorn gives the Hobbits at Weathertop came originally from the armory of his kinswoman Aranel, Lady of the House of the Black Sword.


	6. Duty

Idril ran down the steps of the hall and across the paved court catching up with her brother just beyond the fountain as he made determinedly for the stair to the lower circles. She caught his arm. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I have work to do," he answered eyes straight ahead, chin high, ignoring the tears tracking the dirt on his face.

Idril ignored them too. "The work can wait. You are weary and hungry and smell of horse and worse. If you have no pity on yourself, at least have some for your  
officers!"

That jarred a brief laugh out of him. "A bath and a bite to eat would be welcome." he conceded and let himself be turned around.

Idril took him to her apartments as his own rooms had not yet been made ready for him. She ordered a bath drawn, sent a chamberlain to fetch fresh clothing and had a table laid with enough food for three Men in her solar.

When Faramir joined her there a half hour or so later, his skin and hair were several shades lighter and he smelled incongruously of flower essences. He also devoured everything set before him with an appetite honed by months of deprivation while she entertained him with inconsequentialities; a recension of the poetry of Gelmir of Edhellond recently offered for sale by their favorite book dealer; the sudden marriage of the City's most popular female singer to a gentleman of Lamedon and her departure from Minas Tirith amid the lamentations of her admirers; and how their father's recent statute closing the theatres and forbidding dinner parties or other private entertainments had lowered spirits.

"I doubt anyone has much heart for merrymaking just now, Idril," Faramir said quietly.

"You call dinner parties merrymaking?" she asked dryly. And her brother, who enjoyed such occasions no more than she, smiled. "But even if you do, is it so evil for folk to seek diversion to escape for a time from their fears? You remember what Boromir used to say; 'What good does it do the army for folk to sit at home brooding in the dark? Let them put off mourning til they have cause for grief!'"

"And now they do have cause." said her brother quietly.

"They do," she agreed. "So don't you give them more, Father didn't mean it, Faramir, you know he didn't."

He shook his head, face set. "Yes he did, Idril, you do not know all that passed between us. I have displeased him beyond all mending this time. He meant every word."

She looked at him, disturbed by the conviction in his voice but unconvinced. "I cannot believe that is true."

Faramir produced a shaky semblance of a smile, "Why would he say it if he did not mean it?"

"Because for years now neither of you has let pass a chance to hurt the other," Idril retorted sharply. Her face became wistful: "Surely it hasn't always been so. I seem to remember a time when we were a happy family - or am I deceived?"

"No." Faramir answered shortly. "You are not deceived.

"Then when did that change, and why?" she almost pleaded. "How did this war between you and our father start?"

Her brother sighed helplessly. "I don't know Idril. I know things changed between us - but when or how I cannot recall."

"Nor maybe can he," she suggested softly, then strongly: "End it Faramir. Stand up to him, tell him he's asking the impossible and refuse this ridiculous order. That's what Boromir would do!"

"I am not Boromir," Faramir reminded her tightly.  
"No. You are Faramir, the Steward's wise and prudent son, you know this is folly!"

But he denied it. "Not folly, Idril. Father's right. If we lose control of the river we lose the outer defenses - the Rammas wall and causeway forts cannot hold against an attack in force."

"Then let them fall!" she cried. "Outer defenses are meant to be sacrificed at need. Don't waste Men's lives on piecemeal battles that cannot be won. Save them for  
the final defense of the City."

Faramir smiled crookedly. "Reckless as always, Little Sister, one would think you wanted to see an army of Orcs under the City's walls. It is better far to keep the enemy at distance as long as we may. Boromir retook Osgiliath once before."

"With more Men against fewer of the Enemy." She retorted. "It cannot be done again."

"No." her brother agreed quietly. "But the attempt will buy time, time for the provincial levies and the Riders of Rohan to reach the City."

"But at the cost of thousands of our Men," Idril shook her head. "The price is too high."

"Time is our great need now, whatever the cost." Faramir argued. "And it is the Steward's will that it be done. That ends it."

"It will be the end of him." Idril said bluntly. "You are his last son, the last of his line. He survived Boromir's loss - barely - he will not survive losing you!"

"I think he will." Faramir answered bitterly.

His sister shook her head. "You know that's not true. Kill yourself and you kill him." Then a new thought struck her, and her eyes narrowed. "Or is that your purpose? To avenge all the hurts and insults in one final, shattering blow?"

"No!" he recoiled from her, from the thought, in undoubtedly genuine horror. "Of course not, now could you think such a thing of me, Idril!"

"Whether it is your intent or not such will be the result." she said inexorably. "Think again, Faramir, it's not just your life but our father's as well. And if he dies what becomes of our people left leaderless? Consider that too before you throw your life away."

….

Pippin passed a horrible afternoon.

Denethor ate not like a Man who was hungry, or one who was enjoying his food, but like a Man trying desperately to shut out his thoughts. For the first time in Pippin's life the sight and smell of food inspired no appetite. In fact his stomach rebelled at the thought of swallowing a single morsel. He was wondering why when suddenly Denethor spoke.

"Can you sing, Master Hobbit?"

"Well, yes," he stammered his heart sinking at the very thought of singing 'The Green Dragon' or any of the comic drinking songs he knew best to the Lord of Minas Tirith. "At least, well enough for my own people. But we have no songs for great halls and evil times."

Denethor gave him a grim look. "And why should your songs be unfit for my halls? Come, sing me a song."

For a desperate moment the only song Pippin could think of was that silly bath song of Merry's 'Sing hey! for the bath at close of day.' which obviously wouldn't do at all. Then he remembered Bilbo's favorite walking song - the one they called the 'Adventurer's song':

"Home is behind, the world ahead,  
And there are many paths to tread.  
Through shadow, to the edge of night,  
Until the stars are all alight.  
Mist and shadow, cloud and shade,  
All shall fade! All shall fade ..."

The words had never seemed particularly sad to him before, but now, after all he'd been through they took on a new meaning and a new poignance. Pippin struggled against his tears and Denethor, absorbed in his own pain, either didn't notice or pretended not to.

It was no better after lunch. The silent Men in their rich furred gowns cleared the table and took it and the chair away. Denethor sat again on his throne and various people were admitted to give counsel or take orders. Occasionally Pippin would help the Men set chairs for the visitors, or serve them with wine and little white cakes.

Gandalf returned and Pippin's nerves clenched, bracing for another explosion. But nothing of the kind happened. Instead wizard and Steward had a chilly but civil discussion of recent happenings in Rohan. Denethor seemed very interested in Eomer for some reason and asked many questions about the young marshal's opinions and what advice he'd given to the King.

It was about teatime, as they reckoned it in the Shire, when Gandalf finally left. Denethor suddenly roused himself from thought and looked at Pippin. He frowned a little then said quite kindly: "You seem weary, my small liege, have I kept you too long on your feet?"

"I am not used to waiting on the great, my Lord." Pippin admitted then added stoutly: "But I will grow accustomed!"

Denethor smiled. "I have no doubt of it. But perhaps it would be wise to limit your hours of attendance at first as I do not wish to outwear you! You are dismissed for the rest of the day, Master Peregrin. Return to me tomorrow at the third hour."

Pippin bowed and went down the long marble floor, past the towering statues and silent Menservants, to the great doors which a guard opened for him.

The shadows of hall and tower darkened the court outside where the Fountain Guards in their black robes and strange winged helmets still stood watching over the bleached and withered trunk of a dead tree. Beyond them the black clouds over Mordor, lit by red fire beneath, seemed to have come closer, almost overshadowing the city. Pippin's heart sank to his toes.

Here he stood in the great fortress and city of Middle Earth, dressed in armor with the sign of the White Tree on his breast like he belonged there – but he didn't. He sat down on the steps of the Hall and put his head in his hands. He wanted Merry. He wanted to be safe home in the Shire and for none of this to have happened.

"Are you all right, Master Halfling?" a voice asked kind with concern.

Pippin started, looked up with a start. One of the Fountain Guards was looming over him, helmet under his arm, gazing down with a kindly expression on a face that reminded Pippin strongly of Aragorn, or perhaps of a younger Denethor.

"Yes I'm fine!" He answered. The Man looked skeptical and Pippin felt constrained to add: "That is to say no. But there's nothing much wrong, just a touch of homesickness." He consulted his insides and said thoughtfully: "I should eat something I think, but I can't say I have much appetite. Not to mention not knowing where the dining rooms or kitchens are."

The Man smiled. "Now there I can help you. As my Lord's esquire the messes of all the companies of the Guard are open to you. If you like I will take you to that of my own old company."

"Please!" said Pippin with relief. "And thank you, Master - ?"

"Beregond son of Baranor," the Man said and offered his hand.

"Peregrin Took." Pippin replied, taking it. "Or rather 'son of Paladin' as your folk would say, and very pleased to meet you."


	7. New Friends

The mess turned out to be a big room in the undercroft of the Hall with three long wooden tables standing on a stone flagged floor and whitewashed walls hung with weapons and tattered banners of strange design. It was empty except for the two of them and looked chilly and lonely.

Beregond knocked on a shuttered hatch, "Greetings, Targon," he said to the Man who opened it, "I have the Lord's new esquire here, he has just been released from attendance and is hungry, give us what you can spare."

The food proved reassuringly plain and homely; cold, sliced meats, bread with butter and honey to go on it, apples and nuts and yellow cheese, and a flagon of ale. Pippin felt his appetite return with a rush.

Beregond, sipping a tankard to keep him company, watched the dishes empty with something like awe. Pippin, feeling much more like himself now the hollow place inside was being filled, blurted suddenly: "Why do you guard a dead tree?" and wanted to bit his tongue the minute the words were out.

Luckily Beregond didn't seem offended, though he looked rather sad - like Strider had when he told them about Weathertop once being a great watchtower. "The White Tree is the heart of Gondor, our banner and our device." he explained.

"Yes, I see that." Pippin said carefully, and indeed he did - trees were everywhere in the Citadel, carved in stone or embroidered on banners and surcoats. "But why not cut down the dead tree and plant a new one?"

Beregond smiled ruefully at that. "We would like nothing better, Master Peregrin, but we cannot find a seedling to replace our Tree. The Line of Nimloth, like the Line of the Kings, is extinct."

It was on the tip of Pippin's tongue to ask 'what about Aragorn Isildur's Heir?' but this time he did bite it back. Old Strider was clearly sensitive subject here in Gondor. Beregond might get as angry as Denethor had and Pippin didn't want that. "What and where is Osgiliath, please," He asked instead, "and why is it so important?"

"Osgiliath was, long ago, the chief city of Gondor, of which Minas Tirith was just a fortress." the Man answered readily. "You can see its ruins on the banks of the Great River if you look north and east from the walls. It was deserted, then taken and burned by the Enemy. But we retook it a few years ago to hold as an outpost and a foothold on the eastern bank." Beregond shook his head. "While we held it we also held Mordor's power at bay. But I fear Faramir's return means we have lost Osgiliath."

Pippin swallowed. "We have. But the Lord Denethor is sending Faramir to get it back."

Beregond looked dismayed; "Surely not! How could such an attempt succeed? And it would cost us Men we cannot afford to lose - Faramir chief among them! And yet -" he frowned in thought. "You say Faramir has accepted this command?" Pippin nodded. The Man took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "He is bold, more bold than many deem, for Men these days find it hard to believe that a captain may be wise in ancient lore and yet a Man of hardihood and quick judgment in the field." suddenly he smiled depreciatingly. "And who am I to question the wisdom of the Steward? Just a plain Man-at-arms of Gondor. No doubt the Lord Denethor knows very well what he is about and Faramir too."

Pippin wished he could agree. "And where and what exactly is Minas Morgul?" he asked next.

Beregond looked sad again. "Once it was Minas Ithil, sister fortress to our own city, and the seat of Isildur when he ruled as King in Gondor."

"But - I thought Isildur was _our _King, the King of the North I mean," Pippin blurted, confused.

"So he was, after the death of his father Elendil." Beregond explained kindly. "But before that he governed Gondor with his brother Anarion from whom descended the later Kings of Gondor, while Isildur's line continued to rule in the North."

"I see." Pippin said, and he did. _'Gracious me! Aragorn really is King of Gondor just as Gandalf said, but Denethor won't give up the throne to him. I wonder why?'  
_  
The Man was still talking about Minas Ithil. "- Like Osgiliath it fell to our Foe and so its name was changed to Minas Morgul, Tower of Black Sorcery, and it is become a place of evil and the stronghold of the Enemy's chief lieutenant, the Lord of the Nazgul." He saw Pippin's eyes widen and darken at the name and said: "You know of them."

"We were hunted by them, my kinsmen and I," Pippin answered.

Beregond looked at him with new respect. "We in the City have seen them only from a distance, riding their fell beasts of the air, yet that little was enough to chill the blood of the bravest. To elude such hunters was no small feat!"

Pippin shook his head. "We can't take much credit for it, I'm afraid. It was old Strider who saved us." Beregond's eyebrows raised in question and Pippin quickly explained: "Strider is a Ranger of the North who was our guide and travelled with us. I think he's in Rohan now."

"We have heard of the happenings in Rohan." Beregond said grimly, suddenly looking astonishly like Aragorn in one of his darker moods. "The doings at Isengard warn we are caught in a great net of strategy. This war has been long planned and we are but a piece in it, whatever pride may say.

"Great Armies of Men are moving in the far east, beyond the inland sea, and south in Harad. And other things stir in the Mirkwood and Misty Mountains. All realms shall be put to the test - to stand or fall beneath the Shadow. And how shall we stand? I fear Minas Tirith will fall, and with her the world of Men."

Pippin swallowed. Beregond made it sound so hopeless and yet - "Gandalf fell but has returned and is with us." he said with stubborn, Hobbit faith. "We may stand, if only on one leg, or at least be left still upon our knees."

Beregond's grim face broke into a sudden smile. "Well said, Peregrin! All things must come to an end in their due time but Gondor shall not perish yet. If Minas Tirith falls there are other fastnesses, and secret ways of escape into the mountains. Hope will live on in hidden valleys where the grass is green."

When Pippin and Beregond climbed out of the cellar dining room into the open air of the Fountain court they found the sun had set, leaving a sky still fiery in the west and pale grey-blue everywhere the overcast of Mordor didn't reach.

"I hope to see you again, Beregond." Pippin said sincerely. He could use a friend in this strange city.

The Man smiled. "You can scarcely avoid it, Peregrin, but don't try to speak to me when I am on duty as I am forbidden to reply or to take notice of anything save my charge."

Pippin looked at the four guards standing still and statuesque around the dead Tree, and nodded. "I understand.

...

Gandalf was not at their lodging, Pippin found, nor did he come in afterwards. Just after nightfall a pair of serving Men were let in by the guard upon the door each bearing a hot supper on trays which they laid out on a table in the sitting room. Then they lit the fire and lamps before bowing themselves out.

Pippin did not enjoy his lonely meal. And as the evening wore on his spirits fell. Where was Gandalf and why didn't he come home? Didn't he need to eat and sleep anymore?

Pippin was upstairs, lying on his bed, when he heard the door below open. "Gandalf at last!" he said to himself and tumbled eagerly down the stairs only to come to an abrupt halt on the landing. Not Gandalf but the Lord Faramir stood, tall and somber, in the sitting room below.

He bowed slightly to the startled Hobbit. "Good evening, Master Peregrin. I have come hoping to trade my tidings of your kin for news of my brother's last days and of his death, if you are not too weary?"

"No," Pippin said hastily, "not at all." Even talking about Parth Galen was better than lying on his bed thinking dark thoughts. And so he told his story again, sitting with the Man before the fire, each with a goblet of wine left over from the supper in his hand.

Unshed tears sparkled in Faramir's eyes when Pippin had finished. "It was a valiant end, and one worthy of him. You ease my heart, Peregrin."

"Lord Hurin said you saw Boromir in his boat on the River." Pippin ventured.

The Man nodded. "Lapped in light as in clear water." he said softly, his eyes fixed on some unseen distance. "All of his life my brother has been at war, now at last he has won peace and through a victory the like of which few Men have gained."

Pippin bowed his head, struggling against his own tears. He couldn't help feeling that Boromir would have much rather have stayed alive and come home to his City. And though he knew in his head it was nonsense his heart still insisted in his darker moments that somehow, some way, he and Merry were to blame for Boromir being dead.

"How did you meet Frodo?" he asked when he could trust his voice.

"My Rangers ran across his trail as we laid an ambush for Southron troops mustering to the Enemy." Faramir answered and smiled faintly. "I had never seen Halflings before, though I had heard of them as dwellers in the Northern lands, but Frodo refused to tell me what errand had brought him and his gardener to the marches of Mordor. And so I was distrustful and detained them. Then I captured the creature Gollum -"

"Gollum!" Pippin burst out.

The Man shot him a quick, keen look. "You know the creature?"

"I know of him. Uncle Bilbo got the -" Pippin stopped himself in some confusion, just in time. "That is to say -"

Faramir smiled a little grimly. "Your kinsman Bilbo Baggins, the fame of whose deeds has reached us even here in Gondor, got the Enemy's Ring from this Gollum who had fished it up from the bottom of the Great River where it had lain for many centuries." Pippin stared, unsure whether or not to be alarmed. "Yes, Peregrin, I know of the Ring." Faramir continued quietly. "It was Gollum who told me. Only then did Frodo confess his mission." The Man sighed. "I was reluctant to let him go. It seemed madness to send the Ring into the Enemy's own country in the hands of two little Halflings. But in the end Frodo and Sam made me see this is a case where wisdom and prudence fail and only in folly is there any hope at all."

"That's what Gandalf said," Pippin agreed as somberly, "'just a fool's hope' but all we have. But what was Gollum doing with Frodo?"

"He had taken the creature for his guide." the Man answered. "I do not trust it, and told Frodo so, but he said it had been faithful to its word and he believed it would remain so."

"Frodo must know what he's doing." Pippin said, trying hard to believe it. "And Sam will take care of him."

"I hope so." said Faramir.

There was silence between them for a time, then Pippin, fishing for information, asked: "Why is it that Gondor has no King?"

Faramir smiled wryly. "You mean why won't we give our allegiance to your friend Aragorn?" and he laughed out loud at the look on Pippin's face. "Yes, Peregrin, I know about him too. Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir, I hear he is in Rohan. Does he mean to come to Gondor?"

"I don't know. I don't think he wants to, but Boromir thought he should. I heard them arguing about it."

"So Frodo said as well," Faramir shook his head troubled. "I cannot see any good coming of a confrontation between my father and this Aragorn - for all Boromir thought otherwise."

Pippin couldn't help but agree. Denethor had practically foamed at the mouth at the very mention of poor Strider's name. Who knew what he might do if faced with him in person? "But why are you so set against Aragorn?" he asked plaintively.

"Because the Kingdoms in Exile were divided between the sons of Elendil and Gondor is the patrimony of the younger son, Anarion." the Man explained. "Though his line has failed the Northern line still has no right to the crown of Gondor - or so I was taught, and Boromir too."

"Boromir changed his mind." Pippin pointed out hopefully, "maybe you will too after you meet Aragorn."

"Maybe," Faramir said but doubtfully.

"What happened to your Kings that there are none at all left?" Pippin asked curiously. It certainly did seem strange that Aragorn's line had managed to keep going for generations, living as Rangers in the Wild, while the rulers of this great city had vanished altogether.

"The last King died without begetting an heir," Faramir replied. "And in those days the descendants of the Kings had become few. For since the Kin-strife, when the Princes of the Blood challenged the true heir's right to rule, our Kings had become jealous and watchful even of their closest kin.

"To escape suspicion and persecution some Princes fled into exile. But others chose to renounce their lineage, for themselves and their heirs, by taking wives not of Numenorean blood. Thus it was that no claimant to the crown could be found who was of the pure blood of Westerness, or whose claim all would allow. And so it is that Gondor has no King but is ruled by Stewards."

"I see," said Pippin, though he didn't really. Hobbits were no strangers to family strife but what Faramir described went far beyond their small feuds. "It seems very sad."

"It is indeed." the Man agreed heavily and rose with some effort to his feet. "The hour grows late and we both have duties on the morrow," he said and offered his hand. "Thank you, Peregrin, our talk has comforted me." The clasp of the big, warm hand and the kindly smile along with the gleam of firelight on fair hair brought Boromir back to Pippin so vividly that he had to blink back tears. "You're welcome. I feel better too - I think."

After seeing his guest to the door Pippin climbed back up the stairs to lie down again on his bed. He had a great deal to think about - but instead he fell right asleep.


	8. Preparations For War

Pippin woke the next morning to find Gandalf still hadn't come in. According to the clock it was half past the first hour of the day, (or seven-thirty as they'd say in the Shire) and remembering he was to report to Denethor at the third hour he got up and washed, then downed the small loaf and mug of milk the Gondorim called breakfast and finally struggled into his new trappings. The mail hauberk weighed on his body as loneliness and apprehension weighed on his spirit. Surely Gandalf wouldn't have gone off without even saying good-bye?

Leaving his empty lodging he went up the narrow alley and through the archway between Hall and Tower into the Court of the Fountain, and found it full of Men in sparkling armor with a few clad in worn brown leathers scattered through the crowd. All were somber and silent, their eyes fixed on Lord Faramir who was standing with a knot of officers under a black banner of the Tree at the foot of the Hall steps.

The Steward was nowhere to be seen but Lady Idril was standing there, all alone. in front of the great doors. She had a large golden cup held in both hands and was even more splendidly dressed than usual with a glittering collar all set  
with diamonds and a mantle of silver cloth blazing like the new sun in the pale  
morning light. Underneath the mantle Pippin saw she was wearing a sort of apron embroidered with the now familiar device of the White Tree but under a black sun with golden rays. And on her black veiled head she wore a wreath of silver. The Lady came slowly down the steps and offered the cup to her brother. Faramir drank and returned it to her, and she moved on to the next Man who did the same. It seemed to be some sort of ritual farwell. As the last Man handed the cup back to the Lady she said something formal in a language Pippin didn't understand. Then they all bowed to her and Faramir turned away, heading for the stair to the lower circles his Men forming a column behind him as they followed.

His eye chanced to fall upon Pippin as he passed and he smiled at him. Pippin tried to smile back, not very successfully, and felt his heart moved in way he'd never known before. He'd been a bit afraid of Strider at first but Boromir he'd liked from the beginning and he'd soon learned to love and trust both equally. What he was feeling now for Faramir was not quite the same as those feelings. He wanted to go with him, even if it was to certain death. He wanted to stand by this Man, to protect and guard him - which was ridiculous of course, what use would a little Hobbit be to a great man?

Slowly the Court emptied as the Men followed their captain down the stair. "They go to their deaths." said a sad voice at Pippin's shoulder. He looked up to see Beregond, in his black cloak and silvered armor, standing beside him. The Man's grey eyes went from the soldiers filing slowly down the steps to the Woman standing, glittering, before the Hall steps also watching them. "And the Lady Idril opposes it and is angered with her brother for going."

Pippin looked at the Lady too. Her pale, pointed face seemed quite expressionless to him. "How can you tell?"

Beregond smiled a faint, brief smile; "By her garb. Those are the colors and devices of the Kings of Old. To flaunt them is a taunt to the House of the Stewards. I have seen her show her displeasure with father and brothers thus before." The last of the Men disappeared down the stair and Idril turned and went into the Hall. Beregond sighed. "The third hour approaches and the beginning of my watch - and of yours too I think, Peregrin?"

"Yes indeed!" said Pippin. It wouldn't do to be late. "See you later, I hope." and he hurried across the court to the Hall.

Inside he found Denethor seated on his throne in the chill white and black starkness, almost as if he hadn't moved since the day before. His six gentlemen in waiting were also there - standing quietly between the great columns upholding the vault. The Steward greeted his esquire with a smile as Pippin made his bow. "Good morrow, my liege, I trust you slept well?"

"Very well thank you, my Lord," Pippin answered politely.

Denethor gestured for him to sit on the steps of the throne and continued. "One of your duties as my esquire, Peregrin Took, is to beguile my moments of leisure with songs or talk." he smiled again at the suddenly alarm in Pippin's face. "I have heard you sing - now I would hear your traveler's tales. Tell me of my son! Not of his death but of the months you journeyed together."

"Well," Pippin began, "we met at Rivendell. Boromir was good enough to take special notice of us from the very beginning - though I'm afraid Merry and I led him quite a life!"

He was careful to say nothing about the purpose of their journey - and Denethor didn't ask. Pippin was even more careful to mention Strider as little as possible, but it proved surprisingly pleasant to talk about Boromir and relive the early, happy days of their friendship. His tales were interrupted several times by Men come to confer with the Lord Steward and again in early afternoon when the gentlemen in waiting brought back the table and laid it for lunch, but this time with two chairs.

The second turned out to be for Lady Idril. She came in dressed plainly for her in dark green velvet and smelling faintly of horse. The minute he laid eyes on her Pippin saw Beregond was quite right; Idril was angry, very angry, with her father as well as her brother. But Denethor wasn't at all angry with her. There was certainly nothing apologetic in his manner but he clearly didn't want a fight - though Idril showed herself very ready to pick one. Her conversation revealed she had spent the morning riding round the townlands outside the City; collecting provisions and having them brought within the walls, and finding quartering for the people and their animals in the lower circles.

"It would be better for the Women and children, inside the City as well as without, to take refuge in Lossarnach and so spare us the need to feed and shelter them." said the Lord Denethor.

"I have proposed it," his daughter answered, "and received a firm refusal almost every time."

"If you were to set the example and lead them - "the Steward began, and was interrupted sharply by the Lady.

"I will do no such thing." she said roundly and with blazing look. "If Minas Tirith falls then neither Lossarnach nor the mountain fastnesses will be any refuge and I will not be dug from my burrow like a fox or badger! I am a daughter of Anarion, though on the left-hand side, and I will die in my father's City, if die I must."

That seemed to settle that. Denethor turned the subject to the rationing of food.

…

The afternoon passed much as the morning had. But when Pippin was dismissed, at the same hour as yesterday, he was instructed to return that evening in the second hour after sundown, for further duty. As he'd hoped Beregond had lingered, waiting for him.

"My wife plans an early dinner today," he said. "I hoped you might share it with us, Peregrin."

"I'd love to." Pippin said with genuine fervor. He'd like nothing better than to get out of this grim fortress with its troubled cross currents for a while!


	9. Dinner And An Outing With Friends

Beregond's house stood in the fourth circle, in the shadow of the great crag that divided the City. It was built of white stone, as were all the houses in Minas Tirith, and backed right up against the circle wall. There was a shop on the ground floor with racks of jars and bottles and boxes spilling out onto the arcaded porch and a spicy jumble of delightful smells floating from from the open doors. Pippin sniffed appreciatively.

"My wife is an apothecary," Beregond explained, "a maker of medicines, perfumed essences and other concoctions."

They didn't go into the shop but instead climbed a flight of stone steps at the side of the house to a first floor door that opened onto a stair hall. The anteroom beyond it had two sets of double doors standing open; one pair leading to a porch overlooking the street and the other to a large, bright room full of tall, dark haired Big Folk. Beregond introduced his wife, Hiril, a green eyed lady with curly tendrils escaping from her tight braids. And her brother Iorlas, a young Man wearing a loose gown with a plaster covering half his face and leaning heavily on a stick. Then Beregond presented his own twin sisters Baradis and Berethil, as alike as two peas, and their mother, Anguirel, who was somewhat shorter than her children and had her dark hair laced with silver. Lastly he named his four children for Pippin: the very pretty but very serious girl in her early teens with a large book cradled in the crook of her arm was Beleth. The young boy almost a head taller than Pippin was called Bergil. There was also small girl with enormous blue eyes whose name was Bronwen, and the even tinier boy was Borlas. All four children stared at Pippin in open wonder.

"How old are you?" Bergil demanded, adding proudly; "I am ten years already and will soon be five feet."

"Bergil!" his father and mother chorused. But Pippin just grinned. "I am nearly twenty-nine, so I pass you there," he answered. "Though I am but four feet, and not likely to grow any more save sideways."

Bergil gave a low whistle of amazement; "Twenty-nine! Why you are quite old, as old as Uncle Iorlas."

"Thank you very much, nephew." Iorlas said dryly. "I don't feel quite ready to be classed among the greybeards yet, do you Master Peregrin?"

"No indeed." Pippin agreed. "In fact I'm still little more than a boy as my folk reckon such things and won't "come of age" as we say for another four  
years yet."

"Bergil," said his father with resignation as well as reproof in his voice, "this is not the kind of courtesy I would have you show an honored guest."

"Oh I don't mind." Pippin said hastily as the boy's face fell. "Nothing wrong asking with an honest question I always say."

The Gondorim didn't seem to go in for dining rooms. A long table had been set up under the arched windows at the end of the parlor, as Pippin thought of it, and spread with what even a Hobbit would regard as a good dinner; jellied brawn and jellied beef, roasts of pork and mutton, and spitted fowl of all kinds from a large goose to a plate of dainty capons, hot and cold vegetable dishes, an apple custard and mince pastries.

The tensions swirling around his new master had robbed Pippin of all appetite while in Denethor's presence, but now it came back with a rush. His mouth watered and he set to with a will. The children stared in open astonishment as plateful after plateful vanished. Bergil opened his mouth to comment but closed it, words unsaid, at his mother's gimlet look.

"At table small men may do great deeds." Beregond observed lightly, an eye on his son. "And Peregrin has had hard duty today, waiting upon the Lord Steward."

"I remember the pair of Halflings we met in Ithilien ate enough for two Men apiece." Iorlas remarked.

Pippin turned to him eagerly. "You saw Frodo and Sam?"

The Man nodded. "Only from a distance, I fear. I can tell you no more than they looked well and were determined to continue their quest."

Pippin wondered if Iorlas had any idea what that quest was. Something in his eye and carefully neutral tone suggested that he did.

"I am one of Captain Faramir's Company of Rangers." he continued. "If not for these wounds of mine, got at Osgiliath, I would have ridden with him this morning.

"I am grateful you could not!" Hiril said firmly. "A foolish waste of Men's lives - what Lord Denethor was thinking to order it or Lord Faramir to agree to it I cannot imagine."

"They think it worth the sacrifice and we must trust their judgment." Beregond said firmly and changed the subject. "The reason for this early dinner, Peregrin, is that the Captains of the Outlands are expected at the usual dinner hour and we intend to go down to the Great Gate to watch them march in. You are welcome to join us."

"I'd love to." said Pippin. "But I have duty again the second hour of the evening."

"No doubt the Lord Denethor wishes you to attend him when he greets the Captains. You will have time and to spare."

"In that case I accept with pleasure." Pippin said politely.

"How are you faring in the Steward's service, Master Peregrin?" Hiril asked.

"Well enough," Pippin answered, perhaps a little doubtfully. "I'm getting used to my duties and Lord Denethor has been very kind." he sensed skepticism and added defensively on his master's behalf: "Of course he has a lot on his mind these days."

"He does indeed." Beregornd agreed grimly. "I am truly glad I do not have to bear such a burden." Iorlas nodded firm agreement. The Women seemed less convinced.

The ladies' dissent from their men's views reminded Pippin of another woman. "Lady Idril doesn't approve of this attack on Osgiliath either - or so Beregond  
tells me. I couldn't see any sign of it myself."

"She wore the colors of the Telemmirioni to farwell the troops." the Man explained to his kin.

Everybody but Pippin seemed to understand what that meant. "Who are Telemmirioni please?"

"Descendants of Telemmaite who was one of those who claimed the crown after the death of Mardil, the first Steward." young Beleth piped up readily, "and the only one who refused to accept the decision of the Council and swear to Mardil's son Eradan."

"Idril is descended from that House on her mother's side." Beregond continued. "To wear their colors is accounted a challenge to the Steward's rule. But as the heiress of the House Idril is entitled to do so and has done from time to time to show her displeasure with father or brothers."

"But why wasn't this Telemmaite made king?" Pippin asked.

"Because he had Northman ancestors," Beleth, a learned young lady who liked to show off her knowledge replied before her father could forestall her, "and so his blood was not pure."

That just didn't seem right. "I'm sorry." Pippin said. "But I don't understand why that should make such a difference. You're all Men aren't you?"

Beregond smiled a little bleakly. "We are indeed, Peregrin. And if we Dunedain have greater gifts than other Men it is purely by the grace of the Valar and the deeds of our forefathers. But pride, alas, is our abiding fault and we do hold  
ourselves better than other Men, as we should not."

"Especially as there is, these days, little difference between us and those we call 'Lesser Men'." His wife agreed somberly. "The race of Numenor fails and Lady Idril, for all her mixed blood, is the last of the line of the Kings."

"Not quite the last." said Iorlas very drily.

"The last of noble rank at least." said Beregond, then explained to Pippin; "there are a few commoners with a thin strain of the Blood Royal but they are of  
no account."

"I would that the Lord Steward agreed with you," said Mistress Anguirel from her end of the long table.

After they had eaten all save Iorlas, Dame Anguirel and little Borlas, walked down the circles of the city to join the throngs gathering in the square behind the Great Gate.

Beregond looked at the tightly packed backs between them and the open pavement and said: "Let us try outside the gate the crowd will be less there."

He was right or perhaps strung as they were along the roadway they just seemed less. Pippin and his companions worked their way to the front and waited. After a few minutes horns sounded in the distance, echoed by trumpets from the rampart above the gate.

The people began to cheer, calling "Forlong! Forlong!"

"What's that they're saying?" Pippin asked Bergil who stood beside him.

"Forlong has come." the boy explained, "Old Forlong the Fat, the Lord of Lossarnach. That is where my grandfather lives -" he broke off to shout; "Hurrah!  
Here he is. Good old Forlong!"

Pippin saw am enormously fat old man encased in mail, with a long grey beard showing beneath his black helm. He was mounted upon a big, thick limbed horse with a scarlet and green banderole flying from the spear in his hand and he lead a dusty line of grim, swarthy Men, broad in the shoulders but shorter than the Dunedain, armed with great battle axes.

Over his head Pippin heard Hiril mutter; "So few! a mere two hundred or so."

Beregond answered; "We hoped for ten times that number. No doubt Forlong has heard the tidings from east and north and dares not strip Lossarnach of its defenders. Still every little is a gain."

Forlong was followed by a Lord Devorin of a place called the Ringlo Vale with a following of three hundred Men. Then came the Lord Duinhir of Morthond with his sons, Duilin and Derufin, and their company of five hundred archers. A very large, if ill equipped, force from Anfalas, far away on the western coast, was led by their Lord Golasgil. Then came a few score grim looking hillmen from Lamedon who didn't seem to have a leader any more than did the hundred or so Fisher-folk from the mouths of the Anduin. Finally there came another well appointed company of three hundred green clad men-at-arms led by a handsome golden haired lord riding beneath a green banner. They were followed by the largest and grandest of the forces consisting of both mounted knights and tall men-at-arms, about a thousand in all, under the golden banners of the Prince of Dol Amroth.

"Three thousand all told." Beregond said quietly. "Not enough, not nearly enough. But with the Black Fleet raiding at will can we blame them for putting the peril to their own homes and families first?"

By now the sun had vanished behind the mountain of Mindolluin and it was outlined in in fire, but the city below was drowned in shadow. Pippin shivered for it seemed an omen, and a dark one. The children ran ahead at the heels of the Men of Dol Amroth and he said quietly: "Wouldn't it be as well to get the little ones out of the city? and Mistress Anguirel and Iorlas too?"

"I agree." said Beregond drily. "But my good wife does not."

"Minas Tirith will not fall." Hiril said with calm confidence. "They are safer staying here at home than they would be as prey for raiders on the long road to Lossarnach."

Beregond shrugged and gave Pippin a half-smile. "You see? I can do nothing with her. Are Halfling women so stubborn?"

Pippin thought of his mother and sisters and aunts and cousins, and nodded. "Oh yes."

…..

They left Baradis and Berethil at their own little house in the second circle, and Hiril and her children stopped at home too, but Beregond continued up to the Citadel with Pippin to hear the news the new levies had brought.

"I'm more than a little nervous," Pippin admitted to his friend as they walked up the near empty road, lit by stone lamps on high posts, "I've done some fighting but I've never been in an actual battle before."

"Nor have I," Beregond admitted. Startled Pippin looked up at him and he smiled wryly. "I have been in the service of Gondor all my life but never yet lifted a  
sword in her defense. I was chosen early for the Citadel Guard and never had the fortune, or misfortune, to be sent on campaign. So I am even less experienced than you, Peregrin, with your many adventures."

"That's very odd." Pippin said, trying to be tactful. In fact it struck him as very strange indeed given what Boromir had said about Gondor's danger. There couldn't be anything wrong with Beregond himself though, or he wouldn't have been chosen for the Fountain Guard.

"Oh there is a reason," the Man said, "a foolish one in my opinion, but not alas the Steward's."

His mother had said something like that too Pippin recalled, then he remembered in what connection and came to a full stop at the entrance to the tunnel leading up to the Citadel. "You're descended from the Kings too, aren't you?" he blurted, "and Denethor doesn't trust you because of it."

"Alas yes." Beregond answered, "and unnecessarily too. I know my place very  
well and will keep to it," the Man laughed briefly. "Don't look so amazed, Peregrin, the blood is old and thin and means nothing."

_'Maybe,'_ Pippin thought doubtfully. _'And maybe Beregond reminds Denethor of Aragorn too.'_


	10. The Outland Captains

Pippin went directly back to his lodging for a wash and a brush up before reporting to Denethor, and was delighted and relieved to find Gandalf smoking and brooding in a chair before the empty hearth of their sitting room.

Forgetting his new dignity as a guard of the Citadel he flung himself into the wizard's arms. "Gandalf at last! I was beginning to think you'd ridden off somewhere and left us."

Startled out of his dark thoughts Gandalf gave him a quick hug, a sharply assessing look and said briskly: "I am not leaving Minas Tirith until her present troubles are settled, and certainly not without you, Peregrin Took!"

Pippin sighed in relief.

The wizard too had been summoned to attend Denethor the second hour after sundown when he would formally receive the Outland Captains. As the appointed hour struck Gandalf took Pippin through a back door of the Hall into a sort of dressing room where one of Denethor's gentlemen servants was waiting with a  
small, silver bright helmet for Pippin to wear and a larger one adorned with ravens' wings of real feathers for him to carry on a cushion.

Another little door led to the apse behind the throne. For the first time Pippin saw the great Hall of the Kings full of people, its starkness enlivened by the richly colored, fur trimmed robes of the Men and the shimmering jewels and gold embroideries of their ladies. A double row of Citadel Guards in their bright armor and gold bordered tunics kept clear a long aisle to the doors.

Denethor was sitting on his throne, wrapped loosely in a dark robe with a great black fur collar, and having a quiet but intensely bitter argument with Lord Hurin. The latter was splendidly dressed in silvered armor under a great black velvet cloak edged with gold and pearls and had a winged helmet, like the one Pippin was carrying, tucked under his arm.

Gandalf left the Hobbit's side to join in and end the argument with a few low voiced words. Then he and Hurin went to stand side by side to the right of the throne dais and Denethor turned to greet Pippin with a wintery smile. "Ah, there you are my esquire. Stand you here at my left hand."

Pippin took his appointed place feeling a little nervous, but also enjoying the bustle and color. _'Just like one of Uncle Bilbo's stories.' _He thought in genuine pleasure.

Denethor seemed to be looking for someone over Pippin's shoulder with his brow creased in something that wasn't quite a frown. Suddenly he relaxed and the Hobbit turned to see Lady Idril coming towards them looking unexpectedly militant in a corselet of gold inlaid plate fastened over her flowing scarlet gown. She gave Pippin a smile and her father a cool nod, and went to stand upon the dais at his right hand.

Denethor picked up his gold tipped white rod and stood, throwing back his fur lined robe as he did so. Pippin saw with surprise that the Steward was clad from throat to heel in glimmering black mail with a heavy, gold adorned sword girded at his side. Trumpets sounded from the galleries above their heads and the great doors at the end of the Hall were thrown open. The Outland Captains marched in, encased in mail and plate under bright surcoats embroidered with their devices, each attended by squires carrying his helmet and banner. They advanced in a body to within a yard of the dais, and bowed in unison to the empty throne.

Denethor bowed to them. "Welcome," he said, "welcome true hearts and true friends come to our aid in this dark hour. Dire is the need that has brought you here, yet for tonight let us forget fear and rejoice to find ourselves still so well befriended." With that he came down from his throne to take the hand of Lord Forlong, bearlike in his black armor and scarlet trappings, in friendly greeting.

The people lining the length of the Hall came out from behind the rows of guards to mingle and talk and somebody put a hand on Pippin's shoulder making him start. It proved to be one of the gentlemen in waiting, who signed for the Hobbit to put the Steward's helmet down on the dais and handed him a dish of fanciful sweets made out of sugar paste and filled with honeyed cream or jellies.

Pippin carried it over to where Denethor still stood talking with Forlong. The old Lord of Lossarnach took a sweet, studying the Hobbit with keen interest. "So this is the Prince of the Halflings I have heard tell of. They say you've offered your allegiance and five thousand swords to the Lord Steward here – and when the Riders of Rohan come each will have behind him a small but doughty Halfling warrior."

"Oh no!" Pippin said in real dismay, "oh dear, that's not true at all!" He looked to Denethor for help.

The Steward's lips were twitching suspiciously and his grey eyes glittered, but he managed to keep a serious front. "Master Peregrin is indeed the son of the Lord of the Halflings," he said smoothly, "but he has no sword but his own to offer us, having come so far from his homeland on quite a different errand."

Forlong nodded. "I thought it sounded an unlikely story. Halflings are a peaceful folk, or so our fireside tales say."

"Not that we can't fight if we must." Pippin said quickly. "But the last time was more than a hundred years ago, against the White Wolves of the far North. I'm afraid most of my people have never even heard of Gondor - I know I hadn't until I met Boromir at Rivendell."

"And why should you living so far away?" Denethor asked kindly. He turned back to Forlong: "Forgive me if I leave you now, my friend, but I must have a word with my good brother of Dol Amroth."

Pippin followed his lord over to a tall, fair haired Man draped in a shimmering golden mantle with swans and ships decorating his surcoat. Prince Imrahil proved to be Denethor's brother by marriage, not blood. Pippin looked at him curiously. So that was where Boromir and Faramir had their fair coloring from, and just as with Faramir there was something Elvish about the Lord of Dol Amroth. He was clean shaven in the Elven fashion unlike the other Men of Gondor Pippin had seen, and his golden hair was worn rather longer.

"Where is my nephew?" he asked Denethor. "Surely the Steward's heir should be present."

"Faramir has gone forth to retake Osgiliath if he can." was the flat reply.

"What!" Imrahil stared at his kinsman in disbelief. "Are you mad, Denethor, to throw Men away so rashly? and your only remaining son among them!"

The Steward's face hardened but he answered evenly enough. "Would you rather we yielded the crossing un-fought, Imrahil? You and the other Captains might have arrived to find Minas Tirith already besieged had we done so. Faramir has done well to hold the Enemy at bay for this one day, even if he does no more."

Pippin, looking up at his master, could only wish that Faramir could have heard his father's praise, measured as it was.

The party - if you could call it that - didn't last long. When the bells tolled the fourth hour of the night the company dispersed to their various lodgings in the Citadel or wound their way downhill to their homes in the fifth and sixth circles.

Gandalf came back to their rooms with Pippin and stood on the balcony gazing eastward towards Osgiliath. Pippin sat in an armchair before the fire munching leftover sweets.

"Faramir came to talk to me last night," he told the wizard. "He knew all about the Ring. Did he tell Denethor?"

"He did." Gandalf answered shortly.

"And that's why his father was so angry with him wasn't it?" Pippin guessed. "Denethor wanted the Ring brought here."

"Yes." Gandalf sighed, and came inside to sit in the other chair drawn up before the hearth.

"Gandalf, what's so terrible about this pass of Cirith Ungol? I meant to ask Lord Faramir but I forgot."

The wizard smiled grimly. "The name means 'pass of the spider' and it is said to be haunted by a Great Spider, one of the spawn of Ungloliant."

"Oh." said Pippin in a small voice, then more firmly: "Uncle Bilbo fought off the Spiders of Mirkwood didn't he? Frodo has Sting with him and old Sam to watch his back."

"That is so." Gandalf agreed and continued as if to himself: "We must not lose hope. Frodo is still alive and still determined to fulfill his quest. We must trust him to find a way." He got to his feet. "It grows late and there are evil days ahead. To sleep while we may!"

"But-" said Pippin.

Gandalf turned at the foot of the stair leading to his room. "But what? Only one 'but' will I allow tonight."

"Gollum," said Pippin, "how can they be going about with him, even following him? Faramir didn't like it one bit - I could see that - and I can't that say I do either."

"My heart guessed that Frodo and Gollum would meet before the end, for good, or for evil." the wizard answered grimly, then seemed to lose control of himself: "Treachery, I fear treachery from that miserable creature. Yet – a traitor may betray himself and do good that he does not intend." he shook himself and tried to smile  
reassuringly at the anxious Hobbit. "It can be so - sometimes. Good night, Pippin."


	11. Besieged

The next day, Pippin's third in Minas Tirith, was horrible.

It began, as usual, with him reporting for duty at the third hour. Denethor was still wearing his dark mail and sword under the heavy black furred robe and seemed preoccupied, barely noticing Pippin's arrival. Gandalf, Hurin and the Outland captains came in soon after and Pippin helped the gentlemen in waiting set chairs for them.

"Still no news from Faramir," Hurin told his uncle, Lord Denethor, grimly. "He should have met the enemy no later than yesterday afternoon, and his courier, telling of the result, reached us long since."

'_Unless there was no one left to bring tidings.'_ Pippin thought unwillingly. He looked worriedly at his master. Yes, that was what Denethor - what they all - feared.

Imrahil turned to Gandalf. "Can you See anything, Mithrandir?"

The wizard shook his head. "There is a darkness over Osgiliath that defeats my Sight."

"And mine." the Steward added as grimly.

"Then we must go and seek news." Imrahil said firmly. "Dol Amroth will reinforce Faramir."

"No." said Denethor. Imrahil glared at him and he continued: "You accused me last night of wasting lives, but I spent only what Gondor could afford to lose. All who could be spared rode with my son. If we send more we will not have enough to hold the walls."

"The Lord Steward is right." Gandalf agreed. "We have no more strength to risk on such ventures – at least until Rohan comes."

"But will Theoden come?" a Lord Hirluin asked. "Will he remember our old alliance?"

"He will come," said the Wizard heavily, "even if he comes too late."

'_For all the good it will do us then.'_ Thought Pippin.

Word came, finally, in the afternoon and it was bad, though not as bad as it might have been. Faramir was alive but had been repulsed with great loss. He was falling back to the Pelennor wall and Causeway forts but did not expect to be able to hold there long.

"It is the Nazgul Lord that defeats us," the messenger told the Steward and his Captains. "Even our bravest quail at his coming. And his own followers fear him no less, yet they would slay themselves at his bidding."

Pippin remembered Weathertop and shivered.

"Then I am needed there more than here." Said Gandalf, and strode swiftly down the hall and out the great doors.

Pippin looked after him in dismay but Denethor, sunk in his own dark thoughts, seemed scarcely to notice. "If my son wins back across the Pelennor at all it will be with the enemy hot at his heels. Unless Rohan comes soon we are undone." then he roused himself and turned to Pippin. "You are dismissed Master Peregrin." He rose from his throne strode swiftly out a side door of the Hall, his gentlemen servants hurrying in his wake.

Pippin went back to his lodging to eat a solitary lunch and supper and to endure a long night huddled in a chair on his balcony, eyes straining eastward for the glint of white that would be Gandalf returning. But the wizard did not come.

He was wakened from a fitful doze by the bell sounding the first hour of the day, though all was still as black as night. Rubbing his eyes Pippin sat forward and saw red fire flare north and east, and after a moment a dim rumble reached him like distant thunder. Thowing aside his blanket he ran down the stairs and out of the house then up the lane and through the arch into the Court of the Tree. Men and Women lined the walls of the great stone buttress, all eyes bent anxiously northward.

Pippin spotted Beregond among them and pushed in beside him. "What is it? What's happening?"

"They have taken the wall." the Man replied grimly. "They are blasting breaches in it. The Enemy comes."

"Oh, where is Gandalf?" Pippin all but wailed.

"And where is Faramir?" asked Beregond as bleakly.

Pippin went to the Hall at his usual hour but the Steward was not there. Instead one of his gentlemen servants stood waiting to take the Hobbit through the side door Denethor had used yesterday, along a gallery and up a winding stair to a chamber high in the White Tower.

Denethor was there but he took no notice of his small esquire, not turning from the eastward window where he stood watching. After a moment Pippin dared to come to his side and look out too. The plain of the Pelennor was dark, the houses abandoned and their folk safe within the City wall, but at its eastern edge fires burned, and standing beside Denethor it seemed to Pippin he could almost hear the clash of weapons and see tiny figures fighting.

Abruptly the Steward moved away, going to look out of the northern window. Pippin stayed where he was and at long last saw the gleam of white he'd watched for all night. It was Gandalf and Shadowfax at the head of a line of wagons, escorted by a few horsemen.

Pippin wet his lips and dared to break the brooding silence. "My Lord, Gandalf returns."

Silently Denethor returned to his side and together they watched the White Rider enter the City gates and gallop up the seven circles to the Court of the Tree, dismount and disappear into the tower.

After a few moments a gentleman in waiting opened the door to the Steward's chamber and Gandalf entered. His white robes spattered with black Orc blood and he looked more grim and weary then Pippin had ever seen him.

Denethor asked the only question that mattered: "Is Faramir returned?"

"No," the wizard answered, "but he still lives and is unwounded. He is resolved to stay with the rearguard and cover the retreat of as many Men as may be saved, but I doubt they can hold for long. The one I have feared is come."

"Not the Dark Lord!" Pippin blurted, forgetting his place.

Denethor laughed bitterly. "Nay, not yet, Master Peregrin. He will not come save to triumph over me after all is won."

"It is the most fell of his Captains, the one I spoke of before, Pippin, the Witch King of Angmar Lord of the Nazgul who is come." Gandalf said quietly.

The Steward's lip curled. "Then, Mithrandir, you have a foe to match you. Or can it be you have withdrawn because you are overmatched?"

Pippin flinched, expecting an explosion, but the wizard answered quite gently: "It might be so, but the time for our trial of strength is not yet come. I came to guard the wounded saved from Osgiliath and the Rammas."

"Let us go down," said Denethor.

Bands of Men, weary and often wounded, trickled back to the City all that dark morning and afternoon as Faramir slowly striped the forts of their defenders. Each new group reported him still alive and still - somehow - holding Men to his will even in the face of the Captain of Despair.

Denethor's hands clenched, white knuckled, on the arms of his throne. Pippin hovered at his side in growing fear. If Faramir were to fall what would become of his father? If only they hadn't parted as they had – in mutual hurt and anger. Now that it was too late Pippin bitterly regretted his silence. If only he'd spoken - at the very least he might have made them think again!

When the rearguard came, if they did, they would be hotly pursued. Prince Imrahil drew up his swan knights in the square inside the Great Gate ready to sortie to Faramir's support. But they were not needed.

It was a breathless guard, run all the way from the Great Gate seven hundred feet below, who brought word that the Enemy was at the walls and Lord Faramir returned - alone - dragged at the heels of his exhausted horse.

Denethor ran out of the Hall with Pippin and his gentlemen right behind as Faramir was carried into the court and set down at the foot of the dead Tree.

"Faramir!" the Steward cried, casting himself on his knees beside his son. "Say not that he has fallen!"

"They were outnumbered," the fair haired Captain of the Citadel told his Lord bluntly. "None survived."

"My sons are spent..." Denethor staggered to his feet, stumbling away from Faramir's inert body. "My line has ended!"

'_No, please no, not Faramir too!'_ Pippin knelt beside the litter and touched the Man's face. Faramir's eyelids fluttered as if he wanted to open them but hadn't the strength to do so. "He's alive!"

"The House of Stewards has failed!" the father wailed.

"He needs medicine, My Lord!" Pippin called desperately to him, trying to pierce his master's despair but Denethor didn't seem to hear.

"My line has ended!

"My Lord!" Pippin pleaded unheeded.

The Steward reached the wall and stopped as if struck motionless by whatever he saw below. Pippin, still crouched over Faramir, heard the crash of falling stone and screams rising from the city below.

Suddenly, shockingly, Denethor cried aloud in a voice of thunder: "Abandon your posts! Flee! Flee for your lives!"

Citadel Guards, gentlemen in waiting, even the normally immoveable Fountain Guards exchanged horrified looks. Pippin saw Gandalf and Lady Idril come together through the arch between the King's Hall and the White Tower. The Lady stopped, staring at her father as if she couldn't believe her ears. But Gandalf strode towards him in an angry swirl of white robes and, as Denethor turned away from the wall, struck him full in the face! A second blow to the stomach knocked Steward to the ground and Gandalf whirled on them all, with blazing eyes.

"Prepare for battle!"

After a stunned moment everybody began to move; Guardsmen to the stair in Gandalf's wake; the gentlemen in waiting to see to their Lord; and Idril to bend over her brother. Pippin looked up and was shocked by the bitter anger in her face.

"I told you didn't I?" she said to the unconscious Man. "I hope you're satisfied, Brother. You may have ruined us all!" only then did she seem to notice the Hobbit. "You know where the Houses of Healing are, do you not, Peregrin? Run now and tell them we have need of a healer for the Lord Faramir and the Lord Steward."


	12. In The Steward's Chambers

The Houses of Healing were a cluster of buildings just inside the gate to the sixth circle with treetops showing above the wall of its terrace garden. Pippin ran into a forecourt already filling with wounded from the streets below and spotted an unexpectedly familiar face. "Bergil!"

The boy turned from his horrified but unwillingly fascinated contemplation of a Man with crushed legs, and his eyes widened in recognition. "Master Peregrin! what are you doing here?"

"I need a healer for the Lord Faramir."

"But they said he was dead!" Bergil cried.

Pippin shook his head. "He's alive but badly wounded, and his father the Steward could use a healer too."

"I'll get my aunts." Bergil ran into the building, leaving Pippin standing rather uncomfortably in the court, trying not to look at the hurt folk being brought in or hear their cries.

The boy soon reappeared, two wooden boxes, piled one atop the other, in his arms, and followed by Beregond's twin sisters. What were their names again? Oh yes; Baradis and Berethil, though which was which was anyone's  
guess. Both were dressed alike in grey gowns under darker surcoats with their hair covered by kerchief-like veils. They walked very fast with their long legs and Pippin had to trot to keep up.

"What can you tell me about the Lord Faramir's wounds?" one of the sisters asked.

"Not much I'm afraid." Pippin panted, trying to think. "He was still in his armor so I couldn't see much, but there were two arrows stuck in his harness, and one at least had gone through though I don't know how deep. His face was hot when I touched it, and he stirred a bit as if he felt it."

"Fever," the woman muttered to herself, "and far too soon to be natural."

They hurried across the Court of the Tree. One of the Fountain Guards turned his head to follow them and Pippin realized it must be Beregond. A gentleman in waiting met them at the door of the White Tower and showed them up a winding stair to the third floor. They passed through a large room with a chair under a canopy, into second chamber starkly decorated in black and white, and finally into a small, austere bedroom. The windows had been curtained against the lowering sky and it was lit by standards of candles and a lamp shaped like a tree.

Idril was standing alone beside the narrow, uncurtained bed where Faramir lay, undressed, washed and lightly covered by a linen sheet. "The physical wounds are none so grave," she told the healers as they bent over their patient, "but I fear the Black Breath."

"And rightly," One sister said bleakly and laid a white hand on the Man's flushed brow. "It takes him as a fever - he is fighting it."

"For all the good it will do him." was Idril's bleak answer.

The Healer gave her a sharp, almost chiding look. "You must not give up hope, my Lady. A few have managed to find their way back to life from under the Black Shadow. Lord Faramir has the strength and the will to be one of them. Someone must remain with him at all times, to give him a line and anchor whereby he may pull himself back to us." Idril nodded.

"Peregrin said the Steward was also in need of a healer?" the other sister said.

"He is in the next room."

This too was curtained and candlelit and furnished as a study with shelves of books and a writing desk. Denethor lay on a couch beneath the covered windows, still unconscious.

"He has been struck." the healer observed neutrally, feeling delicately around the purpling lump on the Man's temple.

"Yes." Pippin admitted uncomfortably, putting her box of medicines down on a nearby table. "He - he was distraught." the Woman's mouth twitched a little and Pippin realized she must have heard Denethor's shouted despair. "My Lord has  
been worrying himself sick about Faramir for two days now," he said defensively. "And then to have his only son brought back to him apparently dead - what father wouldn't go a bit mad"

"That is true." she conceded. "The Lord Steward has been under a strain the rest of us can only imagine." She pried open one of Denethor's eyelids and seemed satisfied with what she found beneath it. "No great harm done, he is but stunned." She glanced at the gentleman in waiting standing by the door. "I need cold water."

When it was brought she took a vial of greenish glass from her box and poured its contents into the water. "Bathe his wound with this, it will bring down the swelling." she instructed Pippin. "He should come around very shortly. If he is not himself again by the time the hour stikes, send for me again."

She opened the door to the bedchamber and they heard her twin telling Idril: "There is nothing further to be done, my Lady. My sister or I would remain but there will be many others in need of a healer today."

"Indeed there will," the Lady agreed. "Go, Peregrin and I will deal well enough here."

Pippin went back to sit by his master, bathe his head with the medicated water, and think about his own parents. He'd remembered home and family often enough, and wished himself back any number of times, but never before had he considered what his long absence must be doing to those he'd left behind.

Mercifully Paladin and Eglantine had no idea where their only son was, or the peril he was in, but he'd been gone for so long now that they must be getting anxious. And how would they feel if he never came home at all?

'_I'll just have to see that I do.'_ he told himself and went on tending his master. Through the open door he could hear an occasional moan from Faramir, and his voice calling plaintively for his father. It seemed a very long time, but in reality it was only a few minutes, before Denethor opened his eyes to look dazedly about.

"My Lord?" the eyes focused on Pippin, seemed to recognize him. "My Lord, I am glad you are awake. The Lord Faramir calls for you."

A hint of color crept back into the Steward's grey face. "But...he is dead." he whispered, not daring to believe.

"No, my Lord, he lives yet, though sorely wounded," Pippin answered firmly. "And he wants his father. He's just next door."

Denethor pulled himself off the couch and, leaning heavily on Pippin's shoulder, staggered into the next room. Idril was sitting by the bed, her brother's hand in hers. She looked up as they came in. "Your son calls for you, Father."

The Steward collapsed onto the chair Pippin hastily set for him and took Faramir's other hand.

Idril left shortly after that, and Denethor sat alone by his son save only for Pippin, standing by the door, unwilling to leave yet unable to help.

But his master knew he was there. Suddenly he said: "Come, Peregrin, take my son's hand for a few moments, for I would not have him think himself forsaken and I have an errand elsewhere." Denethor left the room walking slowly and leaning heavily upon a short staff. He was away only a brief time but when he returned his face was so grey and haggard that Pippin was frightened for him.

He took his place again beside his son. Pippin hesitated, uncertain whether to return to his post by the door or stay where he was. He looked at his master for a hint, and saw tears running down his face. "Do not weep, Lord," he stammered. "The healer said he might get well. Perhaps we should get Gandalf?"

"Comfort me not with wizards!" said Denethor. "The fool's hope has failed. The power of the Enemy waxes and all we do will end in ruin.

"I sent my son forth, unblessed, into needless peril, and here he lies with poison in his veins. Even the House of the Stewards has failed. Mean folk shall rule the last remnant of the Kings of Men, lurking in the hills until all are hounded out."

For a moment Pippin felt himself sinking into the black pit alongside his master, but then something inside of him - sheer Hobbit obstinacy no doubt - rebelled against despair.

Frodo lived, and as long as he did there was hope. Even the fall of this great city would not be the end. Aragorn's folk had fought from hiding for nigh on a thousand years. His kin in the South could do the same. And Hobbits too if it came to that! The Shadow would not win, they wouldn't let it.

Lady Idril came in, dressed so differently from her normal custom that Pippin almost failed to recognize her. Her gown was bright scarlet with kilted skirts and the flowing sleeves knotted up out of her way. She wore neither veil nor any jewels save for her great 'B' brooch.

"The people cry out for the Lord of the City." She told her father. "Not all are willing to follow Mithrandir, or even Hurin. They want you, their Lord and Steward. Will you not go down to them?"

"No." Denethor's voice was flat, indifferent. "I must stay beside my son. Let them follow who they will, even the Grey Fool, though his hope has failed."

The candlelight quivered on the gold and rubies of the Lady's brooch and Pippin realized she was shaking with a barely contained passion that was certainly not fear. "Hope fails but hate remains," she said fiercely, "and defiance! Will you sit here and do nothing while the White City burns about your ears? Boromir would be ashamed of his father!"

Denethor's head lifted and for a moment Pippin thought her goading had succeeded - but no. "Here I stay." he told his daughter.

"Very well!" she blazed. "But I am going down into the city to do what little I might to make the Enemy's victory come harder! Good-bye, Father."

She whirled to leave but was halted in her tracks by Pippin's cry: "No!" Father and daughter both looked at him in astonishment but he wasn't going to make the same mistake twice; "Please, you musn't part like this. Not now when you might never see each other again."

There was a tense silence. Then Denethor rose from his seat. He detached the long sheathed dagger on his left hip and offered it to Idril. "Take this, daughter," he said huskily. "I trust you to know when to use it," his voice broke slightly. "Believe  
me, child, if there were any way I could save you I would. But I cannot.

Tears glistened in Idril's eyes as she took the blade. "I know, Father. Don't worry I will not live to be Sauron's slave." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek then bent to place another on Faramir's brow. "Farwell, dear Brother." she said softly, and  
went out.

Denethor sank back into his chair and picked up his son's hand. Pippin subsided onto his own stool, shaking with relief - and remorse. If only he'd spoken up so when Denethor was quarreling with Faramir! Then maybe they wouldn't be sitting here waiting for the son to die while his father aged before Pippin's eyes, heart and  
will both broken.


	13. The Defense Of Minas Tirith

Idril led a long train of healers, her own four maids in waiting, ladies and burgess' wives from the upper circles and their serving maids, down the long spiral avenue that united the city. The lower levels were in chaos just as she had feared; the streets were littered with masonry and the people, leaderless and bewildered, either rushed about in panic or huddled together in tearful despair. She seized the arm of an older Man whose velvet gown proclaimed him to be a person of importance as he tried to push past her.

"You, collect Men and clear this rubble from the streets - our soldiers must be able to move."

He stared at her for a moment, then the glassiness left his eyes and he turned away shouting to the Men nearby with the easy authority of one used to being obeyed. "Come, boys, you heard the Lady, let's get to work."

Idril stepped over blocks of stone to a Woman of about her own years, huddled weeping over a frightened toddler. She took the child from her arms and handed it to Faelivrin. "Get the children and old folk to the upper levels." Idril ordered. "I have had the empty mansions of the fifth and sixth levels opened to receive them." She turned back to the Woman, pulling her to her feet. "Your child is being taken to safety." she said firmly into the uncomprehending face. "You come with me, we need Women at the wall to carry water and tend the wounded."

A light of intelligence came into the reddened eyes. Obediently the Woman kissed her child good-bye and fell in with others behind Idril. She continued down the street, collecting Women and setting the Men and boys to clearing rubble. Finally  
they came to the great square behind the gate and found it already full of injured defenders being tended by their fellow soldiers.

"Go back to your duties." Idril said to the young officer in charge. "We will see to these Men."

He looked from her to the Women already moving among the wounded with their supplies of linens and salves and displacing his soldiers. "Yes, my Lady," he said then uncertainly: "My Lady, Mithrandir has taken command of the defense -"

"By the Steward's will," Idril answered at once and firmly. "Obey him as you would the Lord Denethor himself." Doubts answered the Man saluted her, collected his troops and left.

The great square, the largest open space inside the walls, became their main field hospital. Idril established other aid stations, each with a healer or experienced housewife in charge, and stationed the steadiest of the Women on the wall itself, to carry water and fresh arrows, and bear away the wounded, freeing the soldiers to fight.

Behind the walls the Men of the city struggled to keep the streets clear and dig wounded and dead out of the rubble as the enemy's trebuchets continued to rainruin upon them. And then the Nazgul struck, snatching Men from the inner walls to fling to their deaths, and uttering the terrible screams that froze the blood in the veins and sent Men cowering under whatever cover they could find, hands over their ears - but not all Men.

High above the battle the four Fountain guards stood unmoving at their post of duty. A Nazgul on his winged beast stooped down upon the Citadel, sending those watching from the buttress wall running for cover. But the Fountain guards held their ground turning to face the threat with leveled spears. The Wraith hovered directly above them and voiced its terrible cry yet still they did not blench.

It did not attack. Perhaps some virtue in the dead husk of the Tree kept it at bay, or perhaps it preferred to seek less determined prey. Whatever the reason the Nazgul turned aside, swooping down upon the lower levels.

Weak with the aftermath of terror and the effort of will it had taken to withstand it, Beregond, Gildor, Angrim and Meneldur, exchanged looks in which relief and astonishment mingled then resumed their usual stations, the silence imposed by their discipline unbroken.

The Nazgul cries came only distantly to the first circle but still Women and Men stopped their work to look upward with haunted eyes. Idril urged them back to their tasks with a mounting frustration that almost held back fear. She could get their people to follow her orders and work in their own defense but she could not put the heart back into them. Nowhere did she see the rage and defiance that burned within her and it was beyond any power of hers to inspire it. Neither could Mithrandir, or Hurin or Imrahil of Dol Amroth though Idril had watched them all try. It was like firing wet wood, the sparks they struck were soon smothered.

The one Man who could have kindled all these hearts chilled by fear and despair to renewed courage had gotten himself killed pursuing some unknown quest when he was needed at home. His brother, who perhaps could have taken his place, had instead thrown his life away in a useless gesture. And the father who had sent both  
to their doom had forgotten all duty in his grief and despair.

Idril was furious at father and brothers alike for failing their people - and her - in this last need, and at herself too for being but bastard Anarioni, and a Woman, and so unable to wear the winged crown. The House of the Stewards had failed, just as  
Telemmaite had predicted. Gondor needed her King but there was no King to hear or heed her call.

…

One by one the candles in Faramir's sickroom guttered out until Denethor's hunched form in its dark robes was almost invisible. Pippin could stand the strain no longer he had to get out, if just for a few minutes. He groped his way to the door and slipped through it.

The six gentlemen in waiting stood still and silent as ever in the outer room. Pippin hesitated but they didn't ask him his business. In fact they didn't seem to notice he was there. He went past them, through the presence chamber and down the long stair to the great door of the tower.

It was dark outside too, except for the reddish light cast by the torches on their poles. Pippin leaned against the stone wall and shook. Suddenly the Captain of the Citadel came through the arch between tower and hall followed by the five companies of the guard, each with its captain at its head.

"Come you Men," he called to the sentries posted about the court, "down to the lower levels." The guards abandoned their posts willingly, almost eagerly, each joining his proper company behind the fair haired captain.

Pippin hesitated, fear fighting his reluctance to return to the Steward's chamber. He was painfully conscious of his armor and weapons and the White Tree on his chest. As the tail of the column past him he fell in with it, another guard of the Citadel, however small.

The tall soldiers didn't run but they strode very fast with their long legs, and Pippin soon found himself falling behind. The streets of the lower city were strewn with rubble, despite the best efforts of the Men trying to keep them clear, with more wreckage raining down on them all every time an enemy boulder struck home.

The difficulty of getting through the streets and necessity of taking cover every few minutes broke up the column. Pippin clung determinedly to the band he was following as they knew where to go and he certainly didn't.

The Big Folk didn't seem to see him at all until a group of them accidently knocked him off his feet getting away from yet another fall of masonry. A big chunk of stone fell practically next to Pippin, shaking him badly.

Some of the city Men noticed him then. They picked him up and dusted him off with apologies then directed him after the vanished guardsmen. Pippin wouldn't have believed things could get any worse after that – but they did. Horrible winged Nazgul swooped down on them, uttering their bone chilling cries and sending everybody, even the bravest soldiers, stumbling for cover, hands clapped over ears.

Finally Pippin made it to the wall. He collapsed winded on a chunk of roof as the other guards pounded up the stone stairs. But his conscience wouldn't let him rest for long. He squinted up at the battlements and saw a flash of white cloak - Gandalf! Pippin pulled himself to his feet and started to climb.

He arrived just as the Orcs did, pouring out of their huge wooden siege towers. Gandalf saw him and cried: "Peregrin Took, go back to the Citadel!"

"They called us out to fight." Pippin managed his wide eyes fixed in terror on the enemy.

An Orc started for them and Gandalf struck it down in a whirl of cloak, sword and staff. "This is no place for a Hobbit!" he shouted.

Pippin couldn't have agreed more but he couldn't move. The big hulking Orcs were just like the ones at Parth Galen and just as at Parth Galen he couldn't _move._ He couldn't do anything but stand there like a lump watching Gandalf fight for his life – just as Boromir had.

Pippin saw an Orc come up on the wizard's blind side and before he knew what was happening his sword was out of its sheath and he'd thrust in straight and hard into the nasty creature. It fell and he stood staring in disbelief at the black blood on his blade. Had he really done that?

Gandalf smiled at him. "Guard of the Citadel indeed." He said, then crisply; "Now, back! Up the hill! Quickly! Quick!"

Pippin obeyed scampering for the stairs. But once down off the wall, away from the Orcs and able to think clearly again, he hesitated. Wandering uncertainly through the first circle he walked into a little cross street square full of wounded men being tended by Women, including the Lady Idril.

She looked up and her yellow eyes widened at the sight of him. "Master Peregrin, what are you doing here?"

"The Captain of the Citadel ordered us down to the walls," he explained, glad to find somebody to confide his uncertainty to. "But when I got there Gandalf ordered me back. Now I don't know what to do - I'm no kind of warrior but I want to do my duty."

"Mithrandir is right," the Lady answered without hesitation. "Your place is in the Citadel, Master Peregrin, at the Steward's side. You are his esquire."

Well that settled that, though the thought of returning to Denethor's darkened rooms was almost as appalling as idea of facing Orcs on the wall. Pippin squared his shoulders. "Then I'll go back. Thank you, my Lady, for clearing that up for me."


	14. The City Is Breached

Denethor's gentlemen in waiting paid no more attention to Pippin's return than they had to his leaving. He lit one of the candles he was carrying from a stand near the door to the bedroom before going in.

It was pitch dark and dead silent save for Faramir's labored breathing. Grimly Pippin groped his way to the nearest candle stand, stuck in the new candles and lit them, then moved on to the next. Only after he'd made a complete circuit of the room did he turn to look at his master.

Faramir's face was red with the heat of his fever and glistened in the candlelight. But his father's, hanging over him, was cold and grey like the congealed candle wax dripping from the stands. There was nothing Pippin could say, nothing he could do but take up his station by the door and wait.

After what seemed a very long time the door opened to admit a breathless messenger. "My Lord," he said bowing to Denethor's back, "the first circle is on fire and Men are flying from the walls. What are your commands?"

Slowly the Steward straightened up then he turned to the messenger a face so bleak and terrible that the Man blanched and recoiled a step. "Why? Why do the fools fly?" Denethor demanded; "Better to burn sooner than late, for burn we must. Go back to your bonfire!" he came to his feet and his voice rose to a shout. "The West has failed. Go back and burn!" The Man turned and fled. Denethor looked after him and then back at his son with a glitter in his eye that Pippin didn't like at all.

"Send for my servants!"

Pippin went out the open door to the anteroom. "The Lord Steward calls for you." he said to the gentlemen in waiting. Then he went on through the presence chamber and down the stair to see for himself what was happening outside.

The first circle of the city was indeed afire, and the enemy was hurling great balls of flaming pitch over the wall to start more. Looking down from the embrasure at the tip of the great buttress Pippin saw a great battering ram tipped with an iron wolf's head, red fire in its jaws standing beore the Great Gate far below. Straining trolls pulled it back then released it to swing forward, crashing against the wood and metal of the gates.

"Oh no." Pippin whispered.

…..

The Great Gate quivered under a thunderous blow. The wounded in the square and the Women tending them stared at it apprehensively.

"Idril!" the Lady looked up at Mithrandir on the wall above. "Clear the square," he shouted. "Get the wounded and your Women out of there."

She waved to show she had heard and turned to obey. "Luinil, get the walking wounded up and moving, at least as far as the second circle. Annalind, Pharinzil, try to find me some Men to carry the litters of those who cannot walk."

"The gate won't break." Luinil said fiercely, denying her fear. "It can't!" The ancient timbers shuddered again under a second even greater blow.

"Get up to the second circle or higher if you can," was all Idril answered.

After seeing her field hospital in the square packed up and on its way she went down the lower avenue to collect the Women at the aid stations and start them and their charges upward as well. Then she climbed onto the wall to find Hirluin of Pinnath Gelin, who commanded the defenses north of the Gate.

"Get your Men out of here," she said flatly. He stared at her in disbelief, as well he might, and she explained. "The Gate is under attack, it will not hold, nor will our Men will be able to keep the enemy out when it breaks. If you don't go now you will be cut off and trapped."

He looked around at the Orc littered ramparts and finally nodded reluctantly. "You are right, Lady. We can do no more here."

…..

Far above them Pippin turned away from the embrasure. If the city was about to be breached its Steward should be told, not that he was likely to care. The Hobbit had just reached the fountain and the Tree when he saw Denethor descending the steps of the Tower. He was followed by six guardsmen bearing Faramir, now dressed in mail and asilver edged surcoat, upon a bier. They were followed in turn by the somber waiting gentlemen.

Pippin stopped in his tracks, eyes filling with tears. "Oh no." he whispered again. Faramir was dead.

He ran to join the little procession, trailing the gentlemen servants, as they walked slowly down the stair and through the tunnel to the sixth circle. Turning westward they went past the grand old mansions, some visibly decaying, watched from window and doorway by wide eyed Women and children. Finally the procession came to a door in the rearward wall guarded by a porter in the uniform of the Citadel. At Denethor's command he unlocked the door and they passed through. Pippin walking at the tail end of the procession heard the door close and re-lock behind him. He followed the others down a winding, descending road hemmed in on either side by high walls. Eventually it opened up into a narrow street with many side lanes snaking their way between massive buildings of black and white stone, grand with domes and spires and many statues looking down with empty eyes upon the intruders.

Pippin looked around him uneasily. He didn't like this place. Suddenly he realized where he was. These were the splendid tombs of the Lords of Gondor and they had brought Faramir here to bury him. Pippin stopped where he was in the middle of the street and let the funeral cortege go on without him. He didn't want to go into any of those grim, grand buildings or watch them lay Faramir away in cold stone. He'd just stay here and wait until Denethor and his attendants came out again. Some minutes passed then a pair of the gentlemen in waiting reappeared walking quickly up the street towards the long twisty passage and the door. Pippin looked after them in some bewilderment. Had they forgotten something?

…..

Idril chivied her various charges through fire and ruin up the great avenue to the second gate. They were overtaken by a surge of shaken and battered Men and Mithrandir on his white horse.

"The city is breached!" he shouted. "Fall back to the second level." then he saw her; "Get the Women and children out, get them out!" he cried and galloped on.

She glared after him. What did he think she was doing? But she feared the second level would prove no safe refuge. She knew very well that the inner walls had been hopelessly compromised over the centuries by windows, balconies and postern doors if Mithrandir did not. Unfortunately she proved right. Even before the second gate had closed behind them the circle had been breached in a dozen places. Orcs, Trolls and even Wargs roamed the side streets and narrow alleys hunting for prey. The retreat soon disintegrated into a score of desperate rearguard actions as soldiers tried to cover the flight of the Women, unarmed Men and wounded to the  
higher levels.

Idril stood sheltered in the lea of a half shattered tower with Pharinzil and Annalind huddled behind her. Women ran past them up a flight of steps winding steeply between tall buildings. One or two made the mistake of looking back over their shoulders and screamed at the sight of massive black Orcs all to close behind. Idril looked frantically around for something, anything to stop them and her eye was caught by the jagged wall looming over her.

She grabbed at a couple of the Women running by, "Help me!" the five of them got behind the shattered fragment of wall and pushed with all their strength, it gave but only a little. Other Women at the tail of the group saw what they were trying to do and stopped to help. Their combined weight finally overbalanced the ruin and it  
gave way giant stones cascaded down the stair crushing and sweeping away the Uruks.

"Well done!" Idril panted to her companions. "Now go on, keep moving." obediently the Women scampered up the steps. Before following she looked one last time down at the wreckage and saw that one Orc was still barely alive, half buried, mewling in pain.

Idril hesitated, torn between hatred and disgust and an unexpected pity. Finally she drew the dagger her father had given her and picking her way down through the tumbled stones drove it into the creature's eye, ending its agony. She wiped the black blood from the blade and turned to follow the other Women telling herself there was no justification for needless cruelty, even against such as Orcs.

….

Pippin sat disconsolately on the steps of a splendid tomb adorned with gilded statues of black stone. Denethor's gentlemen finally reappeared, walking more slowly and followed by liveried servants carrying bundles of wood and vessels of oil like the one he'd spilled over the beacon pyre. He watched them pass in bewilderment. Then after a few moments later saw the serving Men hurry back looking pale and shaken.

Pippin came to his feet. "What is it? What are they doing in there?"

"Something I have no stomach for." one of the Men answered him bleakly.

And another said; "If you are wise Little Master you'll come back with us. Leave the Dead to the Dead."

They hastened on up the road. Pippin, really frightened now, went the other way - after Denethor. Peering cautiously through the open door of the great tomb house of the Stewards he saw guards and gentlemen in waiting piling wood onto a wide stone dais. When they lifted Faramir from his litter to lay him atop the pile he moaned a weak protest.

Pippin gasped. Faramir wasn't dead at all! Why then had Denethor brought him here?

The Steward climbed up on the heaped wood to cradle his son's head in his lap. "The house of his spirit crumbles." he mourned. "He is burning, already burning."

Suddenly Pippin realized with horror what Denethor meant to do. Abandoning his hiding place he ran to the pyre and tried to pull down the bundles of wood. "No! He's not dead! He's not dead!" And iron hand gripped him by the back of the neck, dragging him away from the pyre. It was Denethor himself. He pulled Pippin all the way to the door, disregarding his struggles and pleas, and threw him outside.

"Hear now, Peregrin, son of Paladin," he said in an awful voice. "I release you from my service. Go now and die in what way seems best to you." And then he slammed the doors shut in the Hobbit's face. Pippin heard him cry "Pour oil on the wood!"

He turned and ran all the way back to the winding road to the locked door and pounded on it, nearly bowled over the porter when he finally opened to him. Pippin raced through the sixth circle and up the tunnel to the Citadel. Help, he had to get help for Faramir but who and where? Then he remembered one of the four guards  
standing round the Tree was Beregond and ran to him.

"Beregond, Beregond, you must help. Faramir isn't dead but his father is going to burn him alive and himself too I think! Please do something." He saw the Man's eyes glint above the black silk mask as they looked down on him and then away.  
Pippin remembered suddenly what he'd been told the very first day they met: Fountain Guards couldn't speak or take notice of anything while on duty.

A sob of frustration broke from him. "Curse this mad city and its mad laws!" Abandoning Beregond he ran back to the stair. Gandalf, Gandalf could help. If  
only he could find him in time.


	15. Night

"My Lady? Dame Berethil asks to speak to you." Faelivrin looked nervous and unhappy clearly something else had gone wrong.

Idril handed her ladle to another Woman and came out from behind the great kettles of soup and pottage under the shelter of the collonade to follow her maid in waiting across a courtyard crowded with Women and childen supping quietly at their bowls to the suite of apartments on the far side.

Pharinzil lay in the middle room, upon a dusty old day-bed and covered with a sheet. Dame Berethil, the healer bent over her. Idril frowned in sudden concern. "She is still unconscious?"

Berethil straightened to face her. "It is the Black Breath," she said flatly.

For a moment Idril could only gape at her then she got her breath back. "Impossible! Pharinzil was struck by falling masonry not a Morgul dart!"

"Yet she has fallen under the Shadow," the healer sounded both weary and discouraged. "Many, indeed most, of our wounded are so afflicted whatever the nature of their injuries. I cannot explain it, my Lady, but it is so."

Bitterness flooded Idril's soul. "Then they are doomed, Men, Women and children alike." Berethil looked like she wanted to disagree, but she could not. They both knew how terribly rare recovery from the Black Breath was.

'_Why grieve?'_ Idril asked herself as she shook with shock and sorrow. _'All will die in any case, and the Black Breath is a kinder end than the Orcs will give them.'_ "Do what you can for her," she said tersely, turned and left.

The garden terrace behind the house was also full of huddled Women and children. It was surrounded by a high wall with niches for statues and three false gates framing landscape frescoes. Tucked away in a corner was a stair leading up to a rampart walkway. Standing on it Idril could see north and east over the Pelennor fields, now black with the enemy, and the first three circles of the city burning beneath her. She felt for the dagger her father had given her, it would be time to use it soon. Then she was struck by a sudden thought. Turning her back on the ruin of Minas Tirith she looked down at the women and children crowding the garden the garden and remembered all the others in this house and the other great mansions of the fifth and sixth circles. What would become of them? The best they could hope for was a quick death. Far more likely was a prolonged one as the sport of the Enemies creatures. Worst of all was to be taken captive and carried away into Mordor to serve the Dark Lord as his slaves.

Idril thought of all this and her mouth set in a grim line. She would not abandon her people to their fate as her father and brothers had. She could not save them but she would at least take them out of Sauron's hands forever.

…..

'_Oh where is Gandalf? In the thick of things, I suppose, as usual. But where is that?' _Pippin pushed his way against a tide of weary, stumbling soldiers. "Have you seen Mithrandir?" he demanded of each. "Do you know where he is?"Most didn't seem to hear him. At least they didn't answer. Those who did respond could only shake their heads. Mithrandir was somewhere here in the third circle, they said, but none knew exactly where. There was nothing for it but to keep looking - and hope when he finally found Gandalf it wouldn't be too late.

…

"You're mad. You've gone mad, my Lady." the Woman clutched her children, two small boys and a girl, to her skirts and stared at Idril in horror.

"Perhaps I have." said the Lady grimly. "But would you leave these to the mercies of Sauron?" she held out the knife. "Spare them that, and take a particle of the Enemy's victory from him!" she added almost gently, "I promise I will not give the word until all is truly lost and there is no other escape." The Woman bit her lip, wavered, and took the knife with trembling hand.

Not all needed persuading. Idril was unsurprised to discover other Women had had the same thought. Some indeed saw no reason to wait, but there she stood firm: "We must not. Not while the Men are still fighting lest they think they have failed us. I will see we have time enough." she told the impatient ones.

Only a few remained adamantly opposed; among them the healers Baradis and Berethil and their sister-by-marriage, a Mistress Hiril. "It is not lawful." the latter insisted. "In any case the city will not fall."

"I greatly fear you are wrong there," Idril answered evenly. "But if you are right there will be no need, and no harm will be done."

…..

The patter of Peregrin's bare feet on the stone steps to the lower circles died away but cries and sounds of destruction continued to float up the dark shaft to the Court of the Tree. Beregond didn't need to be told the city was breached. There was no hope now for Minas Tirith. Perhaps Denethor was right to take himself and his son out of this world before they could fall into enemy hands. A clean death by fire was far better than Sauron's mercy. It was not worth breaking the discipline of a thousand years to save a life that would be soon forfeit anyway - and far more cruelly. But poor Peregrin! poor innocent Halfling. Why had Mithrandir brought him here to die far from his peaceful northern home?

A breath of air, warm and smelling of the sea, brushed Beregond's cheek. Startled he looked westward and saw a band of grey night sky at the edge of Sauron's Dark. As he watched, disbelieving, it widened and stars appeared, including one brighter than the rest that did not flicker. "Earendil." he whispered in recognition. The star's pure rays fired the Man's spirit, not just with hope but with a purpose and authority that was quite alien to the humble man-at-arms he pretended be. Ignoring the law of the Fountain Guard he spoke aloud in the High Tongue of old, his voice ringing strongly through the Court:

"Aiya Earendil Elenion Orestel!" Behold Earendil, Star of High Hope. "Auta i lome, aure entuluva!" The night is passing, day shall come again!

His fellow guards stared at him in amazement and with some awe but none made any move to stop him as he left his post striding for the stair. A living Man mattered far more than a dead tree – even if that tree were Nimloth. The day had come and Faramir and his father must live to see it.

Beregond was checked at the door to the Hallow. "You have not the Steward's permission to enter." the Porter said stubbornly.

"I have news he must hear!" Beregond pleaded. "For the Lord Denethor's own sake let me pass!"

But the Man was unmovable. "Not without the proper authorization."

Beregond stared at him in disbelief then he saw over the Man's shoulder the key in the lock. He swept the porter aside with the haft of his spear and set a hand to the latch.

"Oh no you don't!" the other Man regained his balance, drew his sword and thrust.

Beregond blocked and before he could think his reflexes had countered countered the blow and his spear sunk deep into the Porter's breast. He pulled the blade free, watching in horror as the Man sagged to the ground, face empty in death. "The  
first blood I ever shed, and it is that of a fellow soldier," Beregond whispered bitterly. "Valar forgive me." But there was still Faramir and his father to be saved. He went on.

The great galvorn doors of the House of the Stewards were shut and barred. Beregond struck them with his spear haft and the bars shattered at his will. The great doors swung open revealing gentlemen in waiting and guards ranged in a ring around the pyre and one Man holding a torch within a breath of lighting the oiled wood. Denethor stood atop the pile with his back to the doors and his son's body at his feet.

"My Lord Steward!" Beregond cried, not just with his voice but with all the power that lay dormant within him. The tension holding the Men inside shattered like a glass bowl. The guard with the torch jerked back his hand his face white with horror at what he'd so nearly done. Denethor whirled to glare savagely at the intruder.

"What is this, my Lord?" Beregond asked his voice ringing off the polished stone vault. "The houses of the dead are no place for the living. Would you abandon your people in their last need?"

"Since when has the Lord of Gondor been answerable to such as you?" the Steward snarled.

"Since the realms were founded, and before." Beregond answered and saw the words go home in a way he had not intended. He had meant only that a Lord was answerable, always, to his people. But he saw in Denethor's glaring eyes both the memory of his, Beregond's, remote royal descent and of the allegiance the House of Hurin owed to the House of Anarion.

Suddenly the rage went out of the Steward's face leaving it ravaged and full of sorrow. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his grief. "Battle is vain," Denethor said, almost pleadingly. "Why should we not go to death side by side?"

"Battle is not vain!" Beregond answered urgently. "The wind has changed, my Lord, it blows now from the west and pushes back the darkness. There is still hope. Your people cry for you, do not fail us."

Denethor wavered. Beregond saw the nobler side of his spirit battle with his pride and despair. For a short moment it seemed that the better part was like to win then the light went out and Denethor's face twisted again into a mask of fury. He laughed with a note of madness in his voice and Beregond knew he was lost.

The Steward stooped and lifted a swathed bundle lying at his feet and swept off the coverings. Beregond recognized the palantir of Minas Tirth, its glassy blackness lit by a red inner fire. Denethor laughed again, wildly. He sprang down from the pyre and advanced on the guardsman with the seeing stone extended before him.

"Your hope is but ignorance," he sneered. "Go forth and fight? Vanity! Against the Power that now arises there is no victory. Even now the wind of your hope cheats you and wafts up the Anduin a fleet with black sails. Look, Man! See for yourself."

Unwillingly Beregond did look and saw, as the Steward had said, black sailed ships small but clear within the globe. But he saw also bright sky in their wake. He raised grey eyes shining with a pure and silvery light to Denethor's maddened gaze. "I trust my own heart, Lord, over a thing made by craft." he said quietly. "And my heart tells me there is still hope. Help is coming, my Lord, I know not who or how, but it comes. And if we hold fast it may not be too late." But even as he spoke he knew it was no use. Denethor had shut mind and heart.

"Hope on then," The Steward said bitterly. "The Ancalimonioni were always fools.(1) The West has failed. It is time for all to depart who would not be slaves." He turned to the nearest guard. "Give me the torch."

Beregond leveled his spear. "Stand where you are."

The Man hesitated, eyes darting between the two. "You dare?" Denethor breathed, unbelieving. How long had it been since any had directly opposed his will? "You are sworn to my service, Guardsman, whatever blood may be in your veins!"

Beregond shook his head. "No I am not. You yourself released me from my oath when I joined the Fountain Guard. I am sworn to the service of the King. As are you, Steward."

Denethor glared at him, face working and shouted to his guards: "Slay me this renegade!"

Guards and gentlemen exchanged dazed and frightened looks like Men caught in a nightmare but none moved to obey. Denethor's hold on their wills had been broken and they would not connive at the murder of a sick and helpless Man.

"What, are you all recreant? Then I will slay him myself! I can still wield a brand!" With that Denethor cast aside both the palantir and his fur lined robe to draw the sword at his side.

…

1. The Ancalimonioni is the name of Beregond's line, descended from Prince Ancalimon son of Elemmacil second son of Narmacil II.  
See Note below.

Note: The Law of Hyarmendacil II

By this statute it became a crime punishable by loss of lands and place in the succession to 'pollute' the Blood Royal by mixing it with that of 'Lesser Men'. The Kings of Rhovanion, because of their supposed kinship with the House of Hador, were not counted among 'Lesser Men', (which was most convenient for Hyarmendacil!) but non-royal Northmen were as were descendants of the Mountain and Vale folk who'd occupied the land before Gondor was established also all Men not of Gondor; the Haradrim, the Easterlings and the like; and Men of mixed blood. Men of common birth were also barred, even if of Gondor, as they were unable to prove 'purity of blood'.

In justice to Hyarmendacil he made this law not out of bigotry and pride of race but to secure Gondor against another Kinstrife. And it proved very useful to Princes of the Blood seeking to escape suspicion and surveillance by the current occupant of the throne.

Ancalimon was one who availed himself of this protection. He chose to wed the very beautiful daughter of a humble tanner. This lost him his rank but did wonders for his military career as his royal uncle and cousin no longer feared to employ his skills. As Captain-General of Gondor he was responsible for the victories of King Calimehtar before finally falling in the Battle of Dagorlad. Beregond is his direct descendant. His wife Hiril and her brother Iorlas are also of the blood of the Kings through a different line.


	16. Night Passes

Pippin was almost ready to give up when he turned a corner and there was Gandalf sitting on Shadowfax and frowning off into the distance, seemingly unaware of the soldiers streaming past him.

"Gandalf!" Pippin cried in glad relief and ran to him, shoving the big Men out of his way as if they were Hobbits. "Gandalf, Denethor's lost his mind. He's burning Faramir alive!"

For a moment the wizard blinked down at him without recognition then his eyes flared wide in alarm as Pippin's words registered. He reached down a hand to haul the Hobbit onto Shadowfax. "Come, we must be quick!"

They galloped up the winding avenue and passed through the gate to the fourth circle. Suddenly Shadowfax checked, coming to so sudden a halt that his riders were almost unseated. Pippin felt a downwash of air, as from giant wings, and was filled with an all too familiar dread. Peeking around Gandalf he saw a fell beast had landed almost directly in front of them. The Nazgul on its back was cloaked and masked and crowned with black iron.

"You cannot enter here." the wizard's voice rang cold and hard and unafraid. "Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!"

He was answered by an even colder and more deadly voice: "Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!" the Witch King raised his sword and red flames ran down the blade. Pippin buried his face in Gandalf's cloak.

The wizard lifted up his staff, light blazing from the tip. But this Nazgul did not blench from the white fire. Sword met staff once, twice, and on the third stroke the staff shattered with a blinding flash. Shadowfax staggered back a few steps as the Witch King laughed then checked himself. Gandalf set his hand to Glamdring's hilt but before he could draw the homeliest yet strangest of sounds froze both wizard and Witch King in their tracks and made Pippin lift up his head to look around in bewilderment for the source.

Somewhere, in some backyard coop, a cock crowed welcoming the morning in defiance of darkness and ruin. And, sure enough, though the eastern sky showed black as ever there was light in the west. Honest yellow-white sunlight seeming terribly bright in contrast with the Shadow hanging over the City, Then, as if in answer to the cock there came to their listening ears another sound faint with distance, the wild music of horns. The Nazgul pulled his beast's head around and took to the air heading out to the battlefield.

"What is it?" Pippin asked, shaking with relief, "What happened, Gandalf?"

"Day has come again," the wizard answered, sounding a little dazed himself, "and the Riders of Rohan with it." Then his old irascibility asserted itself: "There are things I should be doing, but first for Faramir!"

They found the Porter dead beside his door. "This is the work of the Enemy!" Gandalf said bitterly. "Such deeds he loves: friend at war with friend; loyalty divided in confusion of hearts."

They galloped on down the winding Rath Dinen and up the central street of the tombs turning finally into the side alley leading to the House of the Stewards. Its doors stood open. Light from the brightening sky showed them Beregond and Denethor face to face, weapons in hand.

"Stay this madness!" Gandalf thundered, and for an instant both Men looked towards him. Then Denethor raised his sword to strike and snatching a spear from a guard flanking the doors Gandalf charged forward knocking the blade from the Steward's hand. Denethor staggered back and almost fell.

As Shadowfax wheeled around beside the pyre Pippin threw himself onto it to roll Faramir, soaked in oil, into Beregond's waiting arms. The guardsman carried the unconscious Man to the bier nearby and as he did so Faramir moaned and called for his father.

At the sound of his voice the madness vanished from Denethor's face and tears filled his eyes. "Do not take my son from me!" he pleaded. "He calls for me."

"He calls," Gandalf said gently and pityingly, "but you cannot come to him yet, for he must seek healing, and maybe find it not. Your part is to go out to the battle, where maybe death awaits you. In your heart you know this."

Again Denethor wavered, trembling and looking with longing at the face of his son and it seemed to those watching that his better spirit might yet prevail.

"Come!" Gandalf urged softly. "We are needed. There is much you can yet do."

It was the wrong thing to say or perhaps there were no right words with which to call Denethor back to himself. The fey, fell fire flared again in his eyes. "I am Steward of the House of Anarion," he snarled. "I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart! If doom denies me my due then I will have _naught _neither life diminished, nor love halved, nor honor abated."

"Yet you shall not rob your son of his choice." Gandalf answered.

Denethor pulled a dagger from his sleeve and took a step towards the bier, face terrible. Beregond and Pippin hastily put themselves between. He stopped. "So," he said, breathing heavily, "Your minions rob me wholly of my son at the last, Mithrandir. But in one thing at least I will have my will: I will rule my own end!"

Whirling he snatched the torch sputtering in the hand of a guard and sprang up upon the pyre before any could stop him. Smiling viciously directly at Gandalf he cast the brand into the oiled wood. It caught at once. But it seemed to Pippin that Denethor's eyes turned one last time to Faramir with a look of love and grief in the instant before the flames engulfed him.

"No!" he cried and started forward.

Beregond held him back. "It is too late, Peregrin. It has been too late for him for a long time."

The flames roared, licking hungrily at the nearer stone biers and the long dead Stewards lying upon them. "Out!" Gandalf shouted. "Everybody out!"

They fled carrying Faramir with them. The Wizard reached down to slam the doors shut on the inferno, and as he did so they heard a single, agonized cry, from the dying Man. Pippin collapsed in the street in tears.

"Thus passes Denethor son of Ecthelion." Gandalf said heavily. He turned to the dazed guards and waiting gentlemen. "As for you, servants of the Steward, blind in your obedience -"

"Let them be, Mithrandir," Beregond interrupted. "His will was strong. He overbore them."

The wizard looked at the guardsman for a long moment then he nodded slowly. "Very well, Beregond. No reproaches. Come, let us leave this place."

He took Pippin up behind him on Shadowfax and the shaken guards lifted up Faramir and bore him after trailed by the gentlemen in waiting. As they reached the opening to the Rath Dinen there came a great noise from behind them. Turning they saw the dome of the Stewards' House collapse in on itself in a flurry of sparks. No one said anything, they but looked for a moment then wearily began the long climb back to the City of the living.

"Mithrandir," Beregond said in a soft yet carrying voice. Wiping his eyes Pippin saw the guardsman had come alongside Shadowfax and that he carried Denethor's cloak bundled in his arms. "The Steward looked into the Anor-Stone. It showed him that which drove him to this final frenzy."

Gandalf bowed his head. "So that is how Sauron's will entered into the very heart of the City – through its lord."

"What do you mean?" Pippin whispered for both Man and wizard had kept their voices very low.

"There was a palantir kept in the White Tower as well as at Orthanc." Ganadalf answered. "As the peril to his realm grew Denethor dared to look into it."

"But…but he would have seen -" Pippin's voice failed as he remembered the horror of his own experience.

"Seen Sauron," the wizard agreed heavily, "and matched his will against the Dark Power. He was too great to be subdued, but he could be deceived. He saw only that which Sauron permitted him to see and those visions fed the despair of his heart until it overthrew his mind." He turned back to Beregond. "Denethor had it with him in the tomb? What became of it?"

"I have it here," the Man answered and Pippin shuddered, realizing what the furred robe must contain. "It is now the Lord Faramir's charge but -"

"He is not fit to bear it," Gandalf finished for him and gave him a piercing look. "And so I give it into your keeping, Beregond. Guard it well and give it up to none save its rightful owner."

"I will." The Man promised.

They didn't carry Faramir all the way back to the Citadel but only as far as the Houses of Healing, now crowded with wounded, who overflowed into the usually peaceful cloisters surrounding the courts.

"Papa!" Bergil came hurtling out of a doorway to his father's arms. He was followed more slowly by the weary and harried looking Man who was Warden of the Houses.

"Of course we can find room for the Lord Faramir, Lord Mithrandir." he assured the Wizard and looked ruefully around his crowded courtyard, "Somewhere."

"Master Peregrin here will stay with him -" Gandalf began.

"No I will not." Pippin interrupted decidedly. Men and wizard starred at him. "I am a soldier of Gondor not a nurse, and it's high time I acted like one," he continued defiantly and glared up at Gandalf. "Boromir taught us to fight and I will do what little I can in defense of his City for him, and for Faramir, and for my Lord Denethor too!"

"Bergil and I will tend the Lord Faramir." Beregond put in quietly. He looked significantly at the wizard. "I have now a charge that I may not leave."

For a moment Pippin couldn't imagine what he was talking about - then he remembered; of course the palantir.

Gandalf still hesitated, clearly displeased. Pippin braced himself for an argument, but instead the wizard sighed. "Very well, Peregrin Took." he said resignedly. "Let us go down and see how the battle has fared without us."


	17. Day

Idril was at the old Telemmirioni townhouse on the unfashionable south side of the sixth circle when she heard the horns and ran up the stairs to the top of the tower to see what was happening.

The stone bastion that bisected the City blocked her view of the initial Rohirrim charge but a spear point of green cloaked riders soon came into sight piercing the black mass of the enemy.

"They are too few," said Luinil, who had followed her mistress. She clutched at the stone sill. "They cannot win."

Idril laughed. "What does that matter?" At last she was seeing what she had longed all this endless night to see; Men fighting back against the Shadow unfettered by either hope or fear and her spirit rose fierce and fey in response. She laughed again and chanted:

"Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising  
I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.  
To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking:  
Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!"

Poor Luinil stared at her seemingly mad mistress in horror. Idril made an effort to calm herself and explained: "That is a stave from one of the warsongs of the Rohirrim. I have that blood in me you know and it tells me it is better to  
fall fighting than to submit to the Dark."

Luinil seemed to straighten a little, her soft young face falling into sterner lines. "It is not only the Rohirrim who feel so!"

"No." Idril agreed, well pleased. "It is not." It was she who had the Rohirric blood, from her father's grandmother who had been daughter to King Folcwine, but it was Boromir who had taught her the poetry and all else she knew of that heritage. The Riders' stern, warlike spirit had spoken to him pure Dunedain though he was. Perhaps it would inspire the rest of their people as well to make an end worthy of the heirs of the Fathers of Men.

"Oh no," said Luinil, eyes again on the field. "Mumakil!"

"They come late," Idril observed with an oddly detached curiosity. "I wonder what delayed them?"

The Riders formed a line and charged the great beasts only to be crushed under their feet or swept aside by long swinging trunks armed with spikes. And yet, unbelievably, the Mumakil too began to go down - but not enough, not nearly enough. They came raging up to the very wall of the City, bludgeoning it with their massive bodies. Looking down the Women could see the avenue up to the third circle was solid black with Orcs and the buildings that lined it were aflame.

Luinil looked at her mistress and asked steadily: "Is it time, my Lady?"

Idril drew her dagger and the morning light glittered white on the blade. Luinil was right, if they waited until the enemy was at the fifth gate there might not be enough time for all to escape. Yet something held back the words. _'Coward! You are afraid!' _but even as her inner voice jeered Idril knew it lied. It was not fear that held her hand but hope, a mad, unreasoning hope born of the new sun and the valor of Rohan - and of another voice whispering in her heart that all was not yet lost. For a long moment she stood torn between hope and despair, faith and fear, Denethor's rearing pitted against Elendil's blood.

Luinil's voice seemed to come to her from a great distance: "My Lady?"

Idril dropped the blade, it rang on the stone. Hope and faith had won. She would trust in her heart. "No. No, we do not die today," She answered and turned to look at the river. "Help is coming. Hope is coming. He is almost here."

"Who?" her maid asked in bewilderment.

Idril could only shake her head, knowing but not knowing what she knew. "I cannot say. But he comes." And then she saw the black sails. "He is here!"

Luinil saw them too and her eyes widened with horror. "My Lady, it is the Corsairs!"

But Idril shook her head in dazed and wondering certainty. "No it isn't."

…..

Pippin crouched with Gandalf on a sort of porch overlooking the fourth gate. Several ranks of battered, grim looking guardsmen faced it with their spears and swords at the ready. The heavy wood doors shuddered under the blows of the great Troll on the other side.

Pippin shuddered too. "I didn't think it would end this way." he said, and hated the forlorn note in his voice. _'Fine soldier of Gondor you are!'_

Gandalf gave him a sharp surprised look which softened into kindliness. "End? no, the journey doesn't end here," he said gently. "Death is just another path, one that we all must take." One he had already taken Pippin suddenly remembered. The wizard's eyes gazed over the Hobbit's head at something only he could see. "The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it."

He stopped. "What? Gandalf?" Pippin prompted. "See what?"

The wizard looked down at him and smiled. "White shores, and beyond, a fair green country under a swift sunrise."

Pippin's insides unclenched. "Well...that isn't so bad." he said slowly.

"No. No, it isn't." Gandalf agreed, still smiling at his memories and at Pippin.

The gate shuddered again bringing them back to this world. The enemy would be through in another moment. Gandalf gave Pippin a 'get ready' nod. He nodded back adjusting his grip on his sword and closed his eyes. _'Mum, Dad, I'm sorry, I really meant to come back. Forgive me.'_

…

Luinil was now quite certain her mistress had gone completely mad. "It is the pirates of Umbar -" she began only to break off with a gasp as an eerie, greenly glowing cloud in which she could faintly descry the forms of Men and horses poured from the ships onto the shattered docks of Harlond sweeping the Orcs before them. "What is that?"

Idril laughed. It was a youthful, joyous sound and quite unlike the mistress Luinil was familiar with. "I do not know. But whatever it is, it is on our side."

The cloud lanced through the ranks of the foe and came into the City, flowing up the levels like unloosed floodwaters. Luinil and Idril saw greenly luminous, cadaverous forms smother flames and enemy host alike and then withdraw like a turning tide, flowing back out of the City to the battle still being fought on the Pelennor, leaving behind dead Orcs, Trolls and Wargs tidied into heaps.

…

The final blow, the one that would shatter the gate and let the enemy through, never came. Pippin opened his eyes to look blankly at Gandalf who looked back just as baffled. Then his eyes went unfocused again as he looked beyond. Suddenly Gandalf smiled. Standing he vaulted the railing and headed for the gate. Pippin quickly followed, using the steps.

The wizard pushed his way through bewildered, still wary soldiers to where Lord Hurin stood with Prince Imrahil and old Forlong. "Open the gates." he ordered breathlessly. They stared at him. "Do as I say!"

Hurin turned to the Men still holding the great doors shut. "You heard the Lord Mithrandir. Open the gate, let's see what's happened.

Reluctantly they obeyed. Pippin braced himself for a rush of enemies and felt the Men around him doing the same. But when the open gates revealed naught but dead Orcs and Trolls and Wargs, all neatly piled.

Gandalf's smile became a broad grin, "Aragorn!"

Hurin turned to him, face kindling with joy at the name. "He is here?"

"The pretender is come?" Imrahil asked with a frown and many of the Men around them shifted uncertainly.

Gandalf shook his head. "The King is come. And heis no stranger but a Man you knew well once, my Lord Prince, as Thorongil."

"Thorongil?" Imrahil whispered. Then his face lit up as Hurin's had. "_He_is Isildur's Heir? Why do we stand here, Mithrandir? Our King and our allies of Rohan fight before the walls, we must gather all the strength we can find and join them!"

…

Idril felt the change in her people's mood long before she knew its cause. It went deeper than simple relief at their reprieve. The air of dread and despair that had brooded for so long over Minas Tirith had dissipated along with Sauron's Shadow. Everywhere Men were eagerly seizing weapons and hurrying to join the force preparing to sortie while Women and children, the elderly and the wounded lined the avenues of the upper circles to cheer them on and the White City shone in the morning sun.

Idril herself felt lighthearted almost to the point of giddiness, as if a great weight of some kind had been rolled from her spirit, but she didn't learn why until she had led her nurses and healers back down to the great square to re-establish their field hospital. Only then did she hear the rumor being whispered among the people: The King had returned.

So that was who was on the Black Ships. Though she still did not know his name or his lineage Idril had no doubt that he, whoever he was, was the true King. No lesser Man could have brought light and hope back to Minas Tirith when all seemed lost.

She remembered the other half of Telemmaite's prophecy; he had predicted the Stewards would fail - as they had - but also that the King would return to Minas Tirith in the hour of her greatest need and restore Gondor's glory.


	18. A Battle Won

Pippin quickly decided that he much preferred doing battle in the open spaces of the Pelennor fields over fighting in the twisty City streets with enemies popping unexpectedly out of alleys and from behind walls. The Orcs and other creatures seemed readier to run than fight but the dark Men in their barbaric trappings were another story. Yet at long last the moment came when there were no more enemies left, at least none standing.

"Is it over?" Pippin asked the Man beside him.

He grimaced. "It is indeed, Little Master."

Pippin looked at the dead Orcs and Men and horses scatted thickly over the ground, and at the huge grey bodies of the fallen Oliphants, and felt a little sick. "That's good." He swallowed and took another look around. "We did win didn't we?"

"Oh yes." the Man said grimly. He swept the field with experienced eyes, his expression no happier than Pippin's and continued quietly: "The only thing worse than a battle won is a battle lost. And sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference."

Pippin could well believe that. "Thank you for looking after me," he said politely.

That made the man grin. "Light duty!" he answered. "Captain Hurin and Mithrandir underestimated you sadly, Master Peregrin."

Pippin blinked, puzzled, then caught his drift and blushed. "Boromir taught us how to fight."

"You are a credit to him," The Man said warmly.

Walking slowly back towards the City they ran across Gandalf, afoot with Shadowfax following and talking earnestly to Lord Hurin, Prince Imrahil and Lord Eomer, also dismounted and leading their tired horses.

"Ah, there you are, Peregrin." the wizard greeted him quite casually.

The Man saluted the Captains and went off but Pippin fell in beside Gandalf. "Have you seen old Strider or any of the others yes?" he asked.

The wizard simply pointed ahead and sure enough there was Strider, with Gimli and Legolas and a number of tall, grey cloaked Men gathered around him all facing what looked alarmingly like a crowd of ghosts, green glowing and skeletal.

The tallest of them said; "Release us!"

"Bad idea," Gimli put in quickly. Strider and the ghost both looked at him. "Very handy in a tight spot, these lads, despite the fact they're dead."

"You gave us your word!" the ghost cried to Strider.

"I hold your oath fulfilled," he answered gently. "Go, be at peace."

The phantom seemed to close his eyes and Pippin could have sworn there was look of almost blissful relief on his face as he and the whole army of dead, rippled and blew away.

Strider gave Gimli one of his dark looks. So did Legolas and all the Men in grey. The Dwarf shrugged, a little embarrassed. "All right, I'm sorry. But they surely did come in handy."

The Ranger sighed, shook his head, turned away and saw Gandalf, Pippin and the rest. The wizard bowed. For a moment Pippin just stared at him in astonishment then he remembered who Strider really was so he bowed too though he felt a little silly doing it.

He wasn't sure Strider liked it either. He looked at them, tired and a little sad then inclined his head slightly in return with a welcoming smile that warmed the Hobbit clear through. "Hello, Pippin, I'm glad to see you safe and whole." Strider's gaze moved past him to the Gondor Men. "Hurin?"

The Captain essayed a smile but there were tears in his eyes. "Late is better than never, Dunadan," he said in a choked voice, "but try not to cut it quite so fine next time!"

Strider laughed and moved to embrace him. "I hope there will not be a next time, Hurinya!" He released the Captain and turned to Imrahil. "Well met, Prince, it has been many years."

Pippin saw the Man swallow hard before he answered. "It has been too many long years, my Lord and King. You return to us in a dark hour. I would your City were in a state to welcome you as you deserve."

Strider shook his head. "The City and the realm has rested in the charge of the Stewards for many long years. I will not enter in nor make any claim, until it be seen whether we or Mordor shall prevail."

Hurin and Eomer both frowned but Imrahil nodded unhappy agreement. "It may be wiser so. I fear Denethor will not welcome you, my Lord."

Pippin bit his lip trying to push back the memory the pyre and that last terrible cry.

"Denethor is dead," Gandalf said heavily, "by his own hand, and the tomb of the Stewards lies in ashes."

The four Men stared at him in horror and dismay then Hurin, Imrahil and Eomer all looked at Aragorn. "With Faramir sore wounded Gondor is left leaderless," said the Prince, "your City needs you my King."

But Strider shook his head again. "I have no mind for strife with any but our common Enemy. For now I will remain but the Captain of the Rangers of Arnor. Hurin, you are next in line -"

"Not I!" the Captain said vehemently. "My house has stood between the true King and the throne long enough!"

Strider gave him one of his looks but Hurin stood firm and all but glared back. Finally the Ranger sighed, "Imrahil then." The other Man opened his mouth to protest and he continued; "The people need a leader, better one they know than a stranger."

"You are no stranger, my Lord," said the Prince, "but I will do as you wish."

"Thank you." Strider said, and seemed really relieved.

Gandalf and Hurin both looked less then pleased and Eomer was plainly bewildered. Pippin impatiently dismissed the whole confusing matter as a problem for the Great Folk to deal with and no concern of his. He took the chance to ask about something that was; "Where is Merry, Strider?"

"We left him with King Theoden." the Ranger replied and looked at Eomer.

The Rohirrim prince knelt down before the Hobbit frightening Pippin with his somber face. "Theoden King commanded Master Meriadoc to remain behind in Edoras but one of my Riders found this lying near my uncle's body." He held out a blackened piece of metal which it took Pippin some moments to recognize as the  
hilt of Merry's sword.

He took it with trembling hands. "But he wasn't there himself, so he must be all right, mustn't he?" Pippin pleaded.

Gandalf put a consoling hand on his shoulder. "We will look for him."

Eomer led them all back to the place where his uncle had fallen. Theoden's white horse lay there dead and near it a fell beast with its head hewn from its long neck. Beside the beast was a tangle of black robes and a few twisted bits of metal.

A search party consisting of two kings, a prince, a wizard, a Hobbit squire and a dozen or so Rangers fanned out in all directions. Pippin walked slowly, looking carefully at the many dead, feeling sick and scared.

'_Merry's got to be all right.'_ He told himself desperately, _'Why wouldn't he be? You're all right and he's got twice your sense.'_ Then he saw a bare, hairy foot sticking out from beneath the voluminous black robes of a Southron warrior.

He rolled the Man's body aside as if it were a feather his heart pounding. There was blood on Merry's pale face, his eyes were closed and his hand cold to the touch. "Merry! Merry, it's me." he sobbed terrified. "It's Pippin."

His cousin's eyes opened and he tried to smile. "I knew you'd find me," he whispered.

Pippin sobbed again in relief. "Yes."

"Are you going to bury me?" Merry asked.

"No, Merry," he choked. "I'm going to look after you." he saw his cousin's grey cloak lying nearby and pulled it over him then raised his voice in a shout. "Gandalf! Strider! I've found him, come quick!"

They were there almost at once with the other Men crowding behind. Strider knelt down beside Merry and uncovered him searching for wounds.

"He's gone all cold, like Frodo after Weathertop," Pippin told him. "What does it mean?"

"That your cousin has done a deed beyond the power of the greatest warrior of Men." Gandalf answered grimly.

"It was Eowyn." Merry whispered. "She did it, I just helped a little." the name seemed to rouse him. "Eowyn! And the King, they need help, Strider -"

"They have been seen to." the Ranger assured him gently his face grave with concern. "Now it's your turn, Merry." he lifted the Hobbit in his arms. "We must get him to the City."

And so the King entered his ancient stronghold of Minas Tirith on foot with an injured Hobbit in his arms and passed unheralded and unrecognized up the six circles to the Houses of Healing.

Hurin, Eomer and Imrahil however were recognized at once and heartily cheered by the people crowding the ruined streets. They made their way through the tumult and mounted to the Citadel where they found only three Fountain guards on duty and the doors of the Hall standing open. The Men exchanged apprehensive looks, a little fearful of what they might find after all the evil fortunes of the day then bracing themselves for they knew not what passed within.

Two biers stood before the empty throne. The body of King Theoden lay in state upon that to the left, his bed draped with the green and white colors of Rohan and his body covered to the breast by a magnificent cloth of gold coverlet. His hands were folded on the hilt of his unsheathed sword and his shield was at his feet. Candles burned in many branched holders at the four corners of his bier, and an honor guard of knights of both Rohan and Gondor stood with bowed heads and spears reversed around it. The King's herald held his banner at his head and two Women, tall and darkly beautiful but no longer young, stood quietly at his feet gazing sadly at his peaceful face.

They turned as the Men entered and Eomer recognized them. "Aunt Elfflaed, Aunt Flaeda." He embraced Theoden's sisters fiercely glad there had been kinswomen at hand to do what was needful for him and that he had not been left to the ministrations of strangers, however kind.

Elfflaed, the elder sister, kissed her nephew then pushed him back to arms length and said solemnly; "Westu Eomer hal! Hail King of the Mark."

His eyes filled with tears. "It wasn't meant to be like this," he said almost rebelliously: "My uncle should have lived many more years and Theodred followed him. And I would have gladly served both all the days of my life!" But that was not how it had fallen out. Not only was he, Eomer, now King but the last of the House of Eorl. He looked at the other bier expecting to see his sister and saw instead that it held the body of a dark Dunedain lord, one of the kinsmen who had accompanied the Lady Arwen when she came to Aragorn at Dunharrow. "Where is Eowyn?" he demanded of his aunts."She should be lying here beside our uncle and in no less honor. What have they done with her?"

The Lord Aragorn's Elvish lady stood by the Dunadan's bier. "Eowyn isn't dead, Eomer." she told him gently. "She has been taken to the Houses of Healing." He could only stare at her choking on sudden hope and renewed fear. She held out her hand to him. "Come, we will go to her."


	19. The Houses of Healing

The Warden found an unoccupied corner in what was normally a private chamber for the Lord Faramir and called over old Ioreth who had served the healers as long as anybody could remember to make him comfortable.

She bent to examine her new patient and received a shock, "Why he's soaked in oil!"

"Yes," said Beregond.

The old nurse looked at him expectantly for several moments, until it became quite clear that he wasn't going to say one word more nor offer any kind of explanation. She snorted and snapped; "Come, boy," to Bergil before flouncing out of the room.

Beregond smiled wryly to himself. Ioreth had a good heart but anything you said to her was instantly known to all Minas Tirith - and this was one story the Lord Faramir would definitely not want spread. Beregond agreed; Denethor had been a hard but just ruler in a black time. He deserved better than to be remembered as a madman intent on murdering his own son.

Ioreth returned with an armful of towels followed by Bergil laboring beneath the weight of two tins of hot water. "Well don't just sit there," she snapped at Beregond, "help me get these soaked clothes off him!"

Obediently he lifted and turned Faramir as directed while the muttering nurse stripped away the oil ruined garments, bathed and dressed him in a fresh nightshirt. The wounded Man still burned with fever but he was an inert dead weight in Beregond's hands. The guardsman remembered uneasily how Faramir had roused enough to speak when rescued from his father's pyre, not even an hour ago, yet now all this handling brought no response at all. Had Denethor's death somehow snapped his son's link to life as well?

Another Man was carried in by servants in the green and grey livery of the Houses followed by one of Beregond's healer sisters.

"Baradis." he called in low but carrying tones.

She looked at him, recognized Faramir, glanced quickly back at her patient to see he was being duly attended to by a nurse and came over to her brother.

"I fear we are losing him," Beregond said to her even more quietly.

His sister laid a long, white hand on the young lord's brow and shook her head grimly. "You are right he is going away from us." She spoke forcefully to the sick Man, calling him by name. "Faramir! my Lord Faramir!"

Brother and sister both listened, though not with their ears, for a response for any whisper of thought or faint stirring of the will - but none came.

Finally Baradis looked bleakly up at Beregond and shook her head again. "He is past hearing. Many of our wounded are in like case. I fear we will lose them all."

"How many?" her brother asked, dreading the answer.

"Hundreds," she said flatly. "And we have not the skill to save them."

The day passed slowly. Beregond sat by Faramir's side watching him sink slowly but inexorably into death. It was all for nothing then, the breaking of his vows and the death of the Porter. Faramir would die in any case - but at least not by his own father's hand.

Looking back Beregond couldn't understand what had come over him there in the Fountain Court. It was almost as if some other will had entered into him - though he knew that could not be. The light of Earendil had sparked something in himself, something quite alien to the unassuming man-at-arms careful to keep his proper place that Beregond had pretended all his life to be, as he was pretending now even to himself. He knew very well why Earendil had spoken to him, just as he knew why Mithrandir had entrusted the perilous Anor-stone to his care. Because he was of the Blood Royal, however diluted by lesser stock, descended from the Morning Star and from Elendil who had brought the Seven Stones from foundered Numenor home to Middle-Earth. Beregond knew perfectly well he was probably the only Man in Gondor, outside of the Steward and his Heir, who still remembered the lore of the Stones and knew how to handle one safely.

Near sunset the door burst open admitting Bergil. "I was right, there is an empty cot, Bring the Perian in here, my Lord."

Beregond came to his feet in alarm had Peregrin been wounded? But no, there he was behind Bergil, pale but sound. He was followed in turn by Mithrandir and finally a tall Man shrouded in a hooded grey cloak carrying a second Halfling in his arms.

"I'll find a healer." Bergil told the Man as he laid his burden gently down.

"No need," he answered crisply, pushing back his hood and unfastening the leaf brooch at his throat. "I am a healer. I'll need water and clean linen, Bergil."

"Yes sir." the boy hurried out.

"Will he be all right, Strider?" Peregrin pleaded as the Man shed the shabby leathers he wore beneath his cloak and rolled up his sleeves.

So this was the Northern Ranger Peregrin had spoken of. "I don't know yet, Pippin." his friend replied gently. "I hope so."

Bergil returned with the requested water and linens and the Ranger began to strip off the wounded Halfing's Rohirric armor with Peregrin's help. The wizard stood by, his face clouded with worry.

Beregond hated to distress him further but - "Mithrandir?" his head turned. "Faramir is sinking fast can you do aught for him?"

The wizard came over for a closer look then shook his head. "This is beyond any power of mine." he said heavily.

Old Ioreth's face crumpled as if fighting back tears. "Oh, if only we were living in the Elder Days instead of now! 'the hands of the King are the hands of a healer' the old books say. If we had a King he could save the Lord Faramir!"

Mithrandir stared at her then his face lit up with a sudden hope and he laughed aloud. "Men may long remember your words, my good Ioreth! Haven't you heard? The King has returned!" he turned to the Ranger. "Aragorn?"

Beregond recognized the name of Isildur's elusive heir and stared at the Man as he joined them by Faramir's bed. The Ranger had the High Numenorean look with his elegant bones and deepset eyes, and Beregond's own blood told him this was indeed Isildur's Heir, descended like himself from Elendil the Faithful and the Kings of Numenor. Though it seemed his line had fared no better than Anarion's over the long years.

The King took Faramir's hand in his and laid the other upon the sick Man's brow. He stood so for a moment and shook his head. "He is nearly spent, would that I could have been here sooner! Ioreth, do you keep athelas in this House?"

"I'm sure I don't know, m'Lord." She answered blankly. "I can't say I've ever heard that name before. But the herb-master will know. He knows all the old names."

"I mean kingsfoil, as it is called in these later days," The King clarified.

"Oh that!" said Ioreth with relief. "Well if your Lordship had named it so first off I could have told you at once. No, we have none of it, I'm sure. I've never heard it had any great virtue; still it smells sweet when bruised, does it not?" she frowned  
and reconsidered her words. "If sweet is the right word; wholesome maybe is nearer."

"My Lord," Beregond cut in quickly as Ioreth paused for breath. The King looked at him with quicksilver grey eyes startling in their piercing brightness. "My wife keeps a store of athelas for my sisters who are healers. They have found it good for  
drawing poison from wounds and the like."

The King smiled a little. "So it is." he agreed, "In the right hands."

Beregond swallowed. It had never before occurred to him that his sisters' healing abilities had anything to do with their ancestry. "Bergil," he said to his son, watching round eyed, "run home and get some athelas from your mother."

As the boy left running, the King gently laid down Faramir's hand. "Since we must wait I will take a moment to see how the Lady Eowyn fares. I fear she may be in almost as bad a case as this." He picked up his grey cloak and slung it around his shoulders.

"Strider," Peregrin pleaded, "what about Merry?"

The King smiled gently down at him. "Hold his hand and try to keep him talking, Pippin. And do not fear, he is none so far gone yet - we have time."

When the King returned a few moments later he was accompanied by Prince Imrahil and an Elven lady whose beautiful face gave Beregond the same shock of recognition as the King's had. He knew that she too was, somehow, kin though he couldn't even begin to imagine how.

"They seemed but black Orc arrows," Imrahil was saying, "but when he fell into the Dark Sleep we assumed one must have been a Morgul dart."

The King shook his head. "Had that been so he would have died last night. No, he must have fallen under the Shadow long before he rode to battle on the outward walls. Slowly the Dark must have crept on him as he defended Ithilien. He is a Man of staunch will, he resisted it well until grief and wounds sapped his strength.

"The Shadow has hung heavy over the City for far too long," said the Elven Lady. "I have never seen so much Black Breath, not even during the worst of the Witch Wars."

The King nodded bleak agreement. "This House is full of it would that I could have come sooner!"

He sat on the stool beside Faramir's bed and laid one hand upon the sick Man's brow and another upon his folded hands. Then the King said his name softly but with command.

On the other side of the cot Beregond flinched, the low voiced call resounding in his mind like a great shout - far more powerful than his sister's Voice. Imrahil also winced a little, as if he too had Heard.

The King's lips moved silently as he Called again, and even his inner Voice sounded more faintly as his spirit moved away from the world of the living into the dark spaces where Faramir's wandered.

Bergil ran in clutching a folded cloth. "I have it - athelas!" he panted to his father. "Mother says it's not fresh, two weeks old or more, but she hopes it will serve."

"It will do very well." the Elven lady told him taking the cloth from his hand. "Now bring me some of that hot water if you will." There were six long leaves inside the cloth. She took two and breathed on them then crushed them in her hand.

'Sweet' and even 'wholesome' were far too poor a word to describe the living freshness that filled the room setting the very air tingling and sparkling with a cleansing joy. The Lady cast the leaves into the bowl of steaming water Bergil brought her and the fragrance grew stronger.

"Well now!" said Ioreth to the room at large. "Who would have believed it? That weed is better than I thought. No King could ask for better!"

The other wounded Men stirred and exchanged wondering smiles with their nurses all pain and weariness forgotten. And in the next bed the injured Halfling opened his eyes and breathed in a great gulp of scented air.

"Oh my!" he said. "Oh my, here now, Pip, what are you crying about?"

The King opened his eyes and smiled up at the Lady as she held the bowl so he and Faramir could breathe the steam but the weariness did not quite leave his face.

Faramir stirred, slowly his lids rose. He looked at the King bending over him with wonder and with love. "My Lord, you called me. I come." he whispered weakly. "What does the King command?"

"That you rest, and take food, and be ready when I call," The Lord Aragorn answered. He rose gently disengaging his hand from Faramir's grip. "Now I must go to others that need me but I will return, my Steward." Faramir's eyes followed him as he moved away.

"King!" Ioreth had finally realized just who the shabby looking Ranger was. She dropped back onto her stool breathless with astonishment but not, of course, speechless. "Did you hear that? What did I say? The Hands of a healer, I said. A King again, and right here in this House. Who'd have thought it?"

"So much for keeping his presence in the City a secret." muttered Imrahil.

Aragorn turned to where Merry lay with Pippin sitting cross-legged on the cot at his feet. "Well, Merry, how are you feeling?"

"Hungry." was the prompt answer. Ranger and Gandalf both laughed

"Hobbits!" said the wizard, shaking his head in rueful amusement.

"I am sure we can find some supper somewhere for a Nazgul bane." Aragorn smiled.

"Nazgul." a sudden fear came into Merry's face. "Eowyn! how is she? Is she all right?"

"I am going to her now." Aragorn assured him gently. "Try not to worry Merry." he turned to go. "Gandalf, Arwen, come with me if you will."

Behind them Merry said: "Here now, Pip, what are you got up as?"

The door closed on Pippin's reply: "I'll have you know I'm a guard of the Citadel. And you're a fine one to be talking, where did you get that fancy armor?"


	20. The People and Their King

Idril watched the Elvish Lady of the Northern Dunedain leave the hall with young Eomer of Rohan, then turned to her cousin Hurin. "Who is she?"

"Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond Half-Elven." he answered.

She blinked. "Elrond? You mean Gil-Galad's herald, Elros' twin brother, that Elrond?"

He smiled faintly. "The same."

Which explained why Arwen looked like an Elf but felt like kin to Idril. Another thought occurred to her. "How old is she?"

This time Hurin grinned. "Older than this hall." (1)

"So," Idril managed, after a stunned moment, "we are to have an ancient Elf for a queen, that should be interesting."

Hurin studied at her narrowly. "You'll accept the Dunadan as King then?"

She looked surprised at the question, then thoughtful. "Perhaps if I were a Man - but I'm not. I am the last of the Anarioni and a Woman as well as of impure blood. My heart tells me Gondor must have a King if she is to survive. Isildur's Heir must be that King - there is no other." then she grimaced; "But what my father will say is another matter. I should go to him, see how he and Faramir are fairing." 

Hurin looked unhappy. "Idril, Denethor is dead."

She met his eye levelly, pale but not surprised. "How?"

"By his own hand." he answered bluntly.

"I wish I could say I was surprised." she said quietly. "I knew he would not outlive Faramir, but I had hoped he would chose to die in defense of his City." 

She looked at Theoden and the Northern knight, it would not be fitting to lay Denethor beside them. The Tower presence chamber then, he and Faramir together. "Where are they? Still in Father's apartments?"

Hurin looked even unhappier. She saw him draw breath as if bracing himself, and tensed in fear. What could possibly be worse than what he'd already told her? What could her father have done in his despair to make Hurin look so?

"Faramir isn't dead, at least not yet." Hurin began carefully. "Mithrandir said he's been taken to the Houses." 

But that didn't make sense. Why would Father kill himself if his son were still alive? "Where is my father!" she demanded almost in terror. "What has he done?"

"Idril." Hurin took her by the shoulders. "Did you know Denethor was using the Anor-stone?"

She went even paler, if that were possible, staring up at him in disbelief. "No. No, he couldn't have been such a fool!"

"Not a fool," Hurin said quietly, "just desperate. Desperate enough to take any risk. Sauron could not bend him to his will, but in the end he broke him. Idril, Denethor had his Men carry Faramir down to the tombs, he meant for them both to burn alive on a common pyre. Little Master Peregrin got help, Mithrandir and Beregond of the Fountain Guard. They managed to rescue Faramir but Denethor wouldn't be saved. He got the death he wanted and lies in the ashes of his house.

Her eyes closed, Hurin tightened his grip, afraid she would swoon. Instead teardrops seeped from beneath the tightly closed lids. "Oh no," she said softly. "Oh no. It was Father. It was Father all the time."

"What was?" her cousin asked bewildered.

She opened her eyes, their gold glittering through tears, "The Shadow on the City, the darkness that sucked the heart and hope out of our people. It was Father's fault, it came through him - because he was proud and foolish enough to look into that crystal and try to match wills with the Dark Lord!" her voice rose, turning Ellevain and Vanawen's heads and causing the honor guard to shift uncomfortably. " Can't you feel the difference in the very air now that he is gone?"

Hurin, alarmed, gave her a sharp shake. "Idril, this is folly, you are hysterical."

"No, just bitter." she answered, and sounded it. "The House of the Stewards has brought itself to ruin in time to clear the way for the return of the King - and I have now neither a father nor brothers. All have played the fool and left me alone." and finally her anger broke in a sob.

Hurin hugged her close. "You still have a cousin, Little Spark, (2) and a new kinsman as well as a King in the Dunadan."

The rumor that the King had come to the Houses of Healing and proved himself by curing the Men lying sick with the Black Breath filtered through the three habitable levels of the City, carried by recovered patients released from the Houses. But not all who lay under the Shadow had been brought to the healers, many lay in the mansions of the upper circles, Women and children as well as Men. As dusk passed into night a crowd gathered before the Houses, the kin of the sick seeking help for their loved ones. They came in such numbers that the Warden was alarmed and closed the gates against them, holding the crowd at bay with promises that the King would, in due course, come out to them.

But when he did he was so utterly unlike the image the Gondorim had conjured for themselves from statues and paintings and ancient tales that they could scarce believe their eyes. As he came fresh from the battle they'd expected him to be clad in armor and wearing the winged crown on his helm like the statue of Anarion in the Great Square. And to be accompanied by a retinue of squires and gentlemen as was the custom for highborn lords. 

Instead they saw a grimfaced Man in a plain grey cloak over worn and dusty green leathers, his hair matted with sweat and hanging in strings. He stood, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and stared back at the crowd with a cold and wary face. But as the first disillusioned shock passed, the people saw the elegant bones of the High Numenorean blood beneath the tangled hair and scrub of beard, and the mithril brooch shaped like a eagle and set with a great beryl glittering on the dusty coat, and recognized the shape of the hilt upon which his hand rested. And became aware of the power beneath the unprepossessing surface and sensed that the strange King's mood was neither friendly nor welcoming.

Intimidated they hung back, unwilling to approach him. Finally Egalmoth, a grain merchant with a house in the Fifth circle, was urged forward by his wife. He bowed nervously before the King, and the lovely but equally unkempt Woman at his side, and began hesitantly: "My Lord, 'the hands of the King are the hands of a healer', or so the old saying goes, and we have heard that you healed the Lord Faramir and others in the Houses so we would ask - that is to say -" but then the piercing stare of the King's strangely bright eyes dried the words in his throat and he could say no more.

It was his wife, Findemir, (3) who finished for him: "M'lord there are many sick of the Black Shadow in the City, Women and children as well as Men." she said with matronly bluntness. "If you cannot help them they will die -" then her voice to failed, choked by tears.

But the King's grim face softened and he reached out to fold her hand between his. "My Lady and I will do all we can." he promised in a surprisingly gentle voice, then spoke to a grey cloaked man-at-arms standing nearby. "Menelgil, find my brothers and the Lady Arwen's. We will need more than our two pairs of hands."

The King ordered his wife and one of her brothers to tend to the sick on the sixth level, and sent his own two brothers, as plainly clad as his men-at-arms, down to the fourth. He himself, accompanied by the Queen's second brother and the Ranger Menelgil, went down to the fifth. His first stop was Egalmoth and Findemir's house where their daughter and grandchildren lay in the Dark Sleep.

"What happened?" he asked, bending over the Woman and two small boys tucked into the big bed.

"Yesterday, just after the attack began, I went down to the third circle to see if they were safe -" Egalmoth began

"Our son-by-marriage has his house and shop there." Findemir put in. "He is a dealer in gold bullion and plate."

"Half the house was down, struck by a stone," her husband continued grimly, "I found Morniel sitting on the front step with little Galdor screaming in her arms from the pain of a crushed foot, and Glorfindel huddled beside her with a bloody head. I brought them straight back home to be tended and they seemed all right for time -"

"I thought they had just fallen asleep," Findemir admitted tearfully, "It wasn't until I took Morniel's hand and found it cold that I realized they were slipping away from us."

"I can't understand it, my Lord," said Egalmoth, "we always thought the Black Breath came from the weapons of the Morgul Lord and his minions but I swear no such ever touched my daughter or her sons."

The King shook his head. "This came from the Shadow that has brooded for so long over your City." he explained. "Those in health can resist such subtle poison for a long time, but the wounded in body or spirit soon succumb." he looked up, his eyes shining silver in the darkened room. "Where is her husband?"

"We don't know." Egalmoth answered heavily. "Under the stones of their house I fear, I looked and called but got no answer."

The King took two leaves of kingsfoil, bruised them and cast them in the dish of near boiling water that Findemir held for him. As their scent, fresh and enheartening, filled the air he placed a gentle hand on Morniel's brow, and then on her sons', and called them by their names. Their eyes opened so promptly that Findemir was amazed.

"Is that all?" she asked. "I thought there would be more to it."

The King shook his head with a hint of a smile. "We were fortunate, your daughter and her children had not had time to wander far. Now, let me see that foot."

He unbandaged and reset little Galdor's crushed foot. "I fear he may always be slightly lame," the King told the grandparents, "but he will be able to walk without a stick at least." then he looked at Glorfindel's head wound. "There will be a scar," he said to the eleven year old, "a real battle scar, your first and I hope last."

"Galdor cried, but I didn't, did I, Mama?" the boy said proudly.

"Galdor is just a little boy," the King answered mildly, "and cannot be blamed for acting like one." he got to his feet. "And now I must leave you, there are others who need my help."

He went from house to house, followed by Menelgil, healing the Shadow Sick within whether they were few or many. The tenth hour of the night found him in a grand but crumbling mansion in the shadow of the great stone pier dividing the city tending a young soldier who'd been seized off the wall by a Nazgul and thrown to the street below. By the Valars' grace he had survived the fall but the shock of the experience and the physical contact with the evil creature caused a particularly severe case of the Black Breath, and the Man had strayed far into the shadows in the day and two nights since his injury. 

His tensely watching young wife gave a cry of joy as her husband's eyes opened at last to look around him in some bewilderment. "Belthil?" he whispered.

"Yes, darling, I'm here, Everything is going to be all right." she looked in mingled hope and question at the King. 

"The broken bones have been well set." he answered. "It will take time and patience but he will walk and wield weapons again."

The Woman sighed in relief, though her husband seemed still too dazed to take in the hopeful words. The King started to rise and faltered, the man-at-arms who attended him stepped quickly forward to catch his arm.

Belthil saw that the King's face was grey and drawn beneath its thatch of disordered hair and was shocked into frankness. "My Lord, you must rest!" 

He gave her a smile that took her breath away and haunted her dreams for the rest of her days. "I will. When I am finished with my work." 

Aragorn faltered again, outside in the street, and leaned against the wall of the house to recover himself.

Menelgil watched grimly. "And when will you be finished with your work, Dundan?" 

His chief gave him a wry sidelong look. "When there is none left to do, as you very well know."

The Ranger was not pleased. "You'll kill yourself," he said bluntly, "and then where will we be?"

"That he will not." another voice interposed. They looked up to see Elrohir striding towards them, followed by a tall Dunedain Woman in Gondorian dress and a boy carrying a healer's box. "Go, Estel, get some rest. Mistress Baradis and I will finish here."

Aragorn shook his head. "Don't be foolish Elrohir, you must be as weary as I."

"Must I?" he asked and shook his head. "You had already spent much of your strength on the sick in the Houses of Healing even before we began this task, while I came to it fresh. And I am the elder and stronger of us two. Do as you're told, Little Brother!"

"Oh very well." Aragorn caught the expression, half shocked, half amused, on Baradis' face and said: "Tell me, kinswoman, are the Gondorim so froward with their Kings."

Beregond's sister blinked at being addressed as 'kinswoman', though she knew it was true enough, but answered promptly. "It is hard to say, my Lord, it's been long years since we've had a King. But close kin rarely stand on ceremony even among the great." 

1. The Hall of the Kings was built on the site of an earlier, smaller hall by Tarondor , twenty-seventh King of Gondor (r. 1656-1798) 

2. 'Idril' means 'bright spark', hence the pet name 'Little Spark'.

3. The name 'Findemir' was invented by Osheen Nevoy, author of 'Boromir's Return


	21. The Last Debate

Pippin put the heavily laden tray down on a small table and pushed it nearer Merry's bed. "We've got boiled eggs, ham, bread and butter and marmalade," he announced, "and - believe it or not - tea!"

Merry sat upright. "No!"

"Yes!" Pippin grinned. "It seems they use it as medicine here."

His cousin shook his head. "Men are curious creatures."

"I agree." Pippin hoisted himself onto the big bed, handed a plate to Merry and then helped himself to a mug and a slice of bread and marmalade. "Now, tell me the rest of it. How did you get here if Theoden wanted you to stay in Rohan?"

"Eowyn brought me." Merry answered around a forkful of ham. "She had some sort of understanding with the rest of the troop. They pretended she was just another Rider and acted like they couldn't see me at all." He shivered. "I've never been so scared in my life as when we came over the hill and saw the city burning and that huge army of Orcs all around it.

"But you were in the charge?"

"Oh yes." Merry frowned. "I don't know what came over me. The Riders were all shouting 'Death', even Eowyn, and all of a sudden I was shouting right along with them and I wasn't scared any more I just wanted to get down there and kill some Orcs!" he shrugged "So we did. We even brought down one of those Oliphants, Eowyn and I, but then another one fell right on top of us. Our poor horse must have been squashed flat and I thought I was going to be too but it just missed me.

"I think I blacked out for a minute or two. When I came around my eyes and my nose were full of dirt and there was no sign of Eowyn anywhere. I pulled myself together, crawled clear of the Oliphant, and then I saw her." he shivered again. "A Nazgul had her by the throat and I heard it telling her no Man could kill it."

Pippin grinned. "But you're not a Man - and neither is she."

"No." Merry agreed. "But I didn't think of that at the time, just that I had to do something to help Eowyn. So I stabbed the thing in the back of the leg. Not a very gallant blow I'm afraid but it did the job. It dropped her and fell to its knees. My sword vanished in a flash of light and this horrible cold shock travelled up my arm and knocked me flat on my back.

"Eowyn pulled off her helmet. 'I am no Man.' she said to the Nazgul and then she stabbed it right where its face would have been if it had one. Her sword disappeared too and she sort of staggered back with this stunned look on her face. And the Nazgul just went to pieces, crumpled up and collapsed in a heap at her feet with this terrible wailing sound, like when Lightfoot killed those Barrow Wights, until there was nothing left of it but a black robe and some bits of metal..

"Eowyn fell down in a swoon and I dragged myself over to her. She was breathing but she looked like death and her arm was all cold, just like mine. Then I saw that she was lying on the legs of the King's horse, it was dead poor thing, and King Theoden was pinned under it. At first I thought he was dead too, but then he opened his eyes and looked at me. 'Meriadoc?' he said, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"'Yes, Lord,' I answered. 'forgive me for disobeying your command.'

"But he wasn't angry at all; 'It is forgiven.' he said. 'Great heart will not be denied.' of course by now I was crying so hard I could hardly see. 'Tell Eowyn not to grieve. I have died as becomes a King of the Mark. A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!'

"I couldn't bring myself to tell him she was lying wounded just a few feet away. He closed his eyes and I staggered off to get help for him and for Eowyn. But I didn't get very far before this Southron attacked me. I killed him with the Lady's dagger but he fell right on top of me - and I don't remember anything after that until you found me."

"That wasn't just any Nazgul you killed but their chief, the Witch King himself." Pippin told him. "He was the one who stabbed Frodo on Weathertop."

Merry's eyes widened. "You don't say. Well I am glad! we owed him one for poor Frodo." he took another gulp of his tea and asked: "So what happens now?"

Pippin shrugged. "No idea. That's for Aragorn and Gandalf and the other grand people to decide. But of course we're just a sideshow. Frodo is the one who matters."

Merry's face darkened. "And we have no idea what's happening to him - or even if he's still alive."

Pippin grinned. "Oh yes we do! Faramir, that's Boromir's brother, met Frodo and Sam alive and well in Ithilien not quite a week ago!"

"No, really?" Merry exclaimed delightedly.

"Yes really!" Pippin's broad grin faded a little. "That's the good news. The not so good news is he was travelling with Gollum and they were going to try to get into Mordor by a very dangerous route."

"I don't suppose there are any safe ones." said Merry. "But what's he doing with Gollum of all people?"

"According to Faramir Frodo's taken him as his guide. He, Faramir that is, didn't like that much and neither did Gandalf. I just hope Frodo knows what he's doing."

"He usually does." said Merry.

Pippin sighed. "That's what I keep telling myself." A bell tolled three times and he quickly crammed the last bit of bread and marmalade into his mouth and finished his tea with a gulp. "Nine o'clock! I have to report for duty now, Merry, but I'll be back as soon as I can."

The door closed behind him, then reopened. "I almost forgot," Pippin said peeking around it, "the healer told me Strider said you can get up if you feel like it, and have a stroll in the garden they have here."

"Maybe later." said Merry. "Thanks, Pip."

"So long." the door closed.

Merry reached for his pipe and began to pensively fill it with the last plug of Longbottom leaf . The lad who'd just left was definitely not the same Peregrin Took who'd looked so forlorn and frightened when they'd said good-bye in Rohan - and it wasn't just those grand black and silver clothes either.

"I do believe you've grown up at last, Pip." Merry said softly to himself.

Idril sat at a small writing table in the mistress' morning room of her north side townhouse reading a sheaf of scribbled reports and lists from the guildmasters and provosts of the City while a lark sang in the garden outside her window.

A surprising number of survivors had been discovered in the lower City. Citizens and soldiers alike, cut off from retreat to the upper circles, had taken refuge from fire and foes in the network of cellars, subcellars, tunnels and drains that honeycombed the foundations of Minas Tirith. And the Great Gatehouse's garrison had, incredibly, managed to hold out while the rest of the City defenses went down around them. Idril made a note recommending their valor be recognized and rewarded - by somebody.

She was uncertain exactly who ruled the City now; the new King, or Hurin as acting Steward, or Imrahil as head of the Council of Nobles. Or, for that matter, of her own status; Was she still Lady of Gondor? Probably not - but she intended to carry on until formally relieved of her duties. It would be scarcely fair to turn them over to the new Queen with the realm in such disorder.

If the loss of life had turned out to be lighter than their first fears the same could not be said for the material damages. Fire had destroyed the homes and possessions of the City's humbler denizens, who lived for the most part in the first and second circles, as well as their workshops and tools and stockpiles of goods, also the rich shops of the third circle. The great public buildings in the first circle; the Guildhalls, and City Hall and the Courts had been gutted and the Pelannor fields swept clean with not a wall or even a tree left standing. How they were to make good these losses, not to mention pay for the rebuilding Idril did not know. Assuming of course they survived long enough to attempt it. Mordor had been repulsed but not defeated. There was still a good chance they would be called upon to die gallantly in a final defense of the world of Men. She sighed; certainly that would be much simpler than trying to remake it.

The door opened and Faelivrin looked in, face bright with smiles. "Pharinzil is awake, my Lady."

At last a bit of good news.

"A shining lady, all in white, called me back." Pharinzil was telling Luinil and Annalind earnestly from her bed in the small middle room off the courtyard. "But I don't know who she was."

"That was the Queen." said Idril from the doorway.

"Queen?" Pharinzil echoed blankly. "I don't understand, my Lady, what Queen?"

"Our Queen, the Queen of Gondor." Idril laughed aloud at her maiden's bewildered look. "Poor, Pharinzil, you missed everything. Well, that will teach you not to let yourself get knocked on the head!"

The girl stared at her incredulous, and then looked questioningly at Faelivrin, who could only shrug a little in reply. This kind of badinage was most unlike the mistress they were familiar with, but her maidens were at loss to explain the change.

Idril couldn't entirely explain it herself. Her father was horribly and dishonorably dead, her City lay in ruins and she was like to lose her rank - but somehow these things weighed feather light against the hope the Returned King had brought with him. And the fact that Faramir was going to live.

Egalmoth, grain merchant of the fifth circle, almost failed to recognize the ragged, soot blackened Man standing in front of his house looking upward at the citadel - then he did and swept his son-in-law into a relieved embrace.

"Gwindor, thank the Valar! We'd feared you were dead."

"Not quite, not yet anyway." the younger Man answered with a weary smile. "I've been fighting fires half the night - and spent the morning salvaging what I can from my shop."

Egalmoth let him go. "It burned of course."

Gwindor nodded. "Still I am more fortunate than my neighbors. Gold and jewels can withstand fire, as silks and spices cannot."

"Nor grain." Egalmoth agreed grimly. "I haven't been down to my warehouses in the first circle yet - but I know very well what I'll find."

His son-in-law looked again up at the citadel, shook his head. "I do not understand."

Egalmoth looked too, and blinked in surprise; the blue banner of Dol Amroth flew above the Hall of the Kings, not the White Tree as he had expected.

"The King did return, didn't he, it wasn't just a dream?" Gwindor asked.

His father-in-law smiled a little. "He was no dream, believe me - if not quite what we'd have expected." he looked again at the blue banner and felt a chill of fear. The King had come - but what if he hadn't stayed?

"But why is the Prince's banner flying over the citadel rather than the King's?" Angbor of Lebennin (1) demanded of Hurin as they, and Ciryandil of Pelargir, entered the Fountain Court.

"Because the King would have it so." Hurin answered grimly. "He remembers too well Gondor's long rejection of Isildur's line and will not understand that times and hearts have changed."

"He fears opposition even after saving the City?" Ciryandil asked incredulously.

"Why not." said Angbor quietly. "We turned on Tarondor didn't we?" (2)

They found three of the surviving Outland Captains awaiting them in the council chamber: Duinhir of Morthond, Devorin of the Ringlo Vale and Golasgil of Anfalas. Angbor took the small figure in the window seat for a young page at first glance, but a second showed that he was nothing of the kind.

Hurin, seeing his perplexed stare, explained. "This is my esquire, Peregrin son of Paladin of the land of the Halflings. A very valiant Man."

The Halfling straightened abruptly from his bow to give his Lord a chiding look. "I am no Man but a Hobbit," he said firmly, "and no more valiant than I am a Man, save perhaps now and again out of necessity."

Angbor laughed. "Many a doer of great deeds might say no more, Little Master."

Hurin smiled too. "I beg your pardon, Peregrin, no offense was intended."

The King arrived shortly thereafter. He stood in the doorway with a lovely Elf-woman in worn and stained riding dress at his side. He himself was clad in dusty green leathers but the Captains barely noticed his garb. As Thorongil he had hidden his power but he wasn't hiding it now; it blazed from him as light and heat blaze from the sun, striking the waiting Men both dumb and motionless.

Mithrandir, Imrahil and Eomer of Rohan moved to join the other Captains at the table but the King hesitated a long moment before taking his place at its head. He stood before the great chair, backed by two tall Dunedain with the star of the North Kingdom on their shoulders, and swept the Men before him with a stern look from silver bright eyes.

"Some of you will remember me as Thorongil." he said in that soft yet carrying voice. "My true name is Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir and Chieftain of the Dunedain of the North. I have come in this dark hour not to press old claims but to join Gondor in her war against the common foe. Sauron and Sauron alone is the enemy."

He surveyed the dazed faces of the Men before him and seemed satisfied he'd made his point. He sat down and, after a stunned moment, they followed suit. He looked at Mithrandir.

"My Lords, the late Steward spoke truly when he said: 'against the power that has now arisen there is no victory' for he had looked into the stone of Anor and not even Sauron can make the seeing stones lie." said the wizard. "Yet I do not bid you to despair as he did. Victory cannot be gained by force of arms - this we all know. But there is still hope of victory. What you have heard is true, the One Ring has been found but it is not yet in Sauron's hands, nor is it in ours. In wisdom or great folly it has been sent away, even into Mordor itself, to be destroyed lest it destroy us. We must at all costs keep the Eye from his true peril. We cannot achieve victory by arms but by arms we can give the Ringbearer his chance.  
  
"Sauron now knows for certain that which he has long feared." The King said quietly. "An Heir of Isildur, who defeated him of Old, still lives and the sword that was broken has been reforged. I mean to challenge him, face to face, and to march with whatever following I can gather on the Black Gates." He smiled grimly. "I am a bait he cannot resist."  
  
"Sauron fears the King of Men." Mithrandir agreed. "He will send out all his power to defeat and take Isildur's Heir. And we must walk open eyed into the trap, with courage but small hope for ourselves. Even if the Ringbearer succeeds and Barad-dur is thrown down we still may all perish in black battle far from the living lands."  
  
"This I deem to be my duty as Elendil's Heir." said the King. "And according to my oath to the Ringbearer - to protect him with my life or my death. But I do not claim to command any Man. Let you choose as you will."  
  
"I'll go with you, Strider." a light voice said promptly. It was the Halfling squire, deathly pale but resolute. "Sauron thinks I have the Ring. If he sees you have me along he won't bother to look for it anywhere else."

Mithrandir made as if to protest but the King silenced him with a sharp gesture. "Good thinking, Peregrin." he said warmly. "The sight of the supposed Ringbearer in the livery of Gondor will indeed give Sauron pause."  
  
The Halfling managed to smile back. Clearly he knew very well what he was risking. Hurin had not exagerated when he praised his valor."The King has spoken." said Hurin. "Gondor follows, what more is there to say?"  
  
But the King shook his head. "No Hurin. I have told you that I demand no allegiance."  
  
"And yet you have it unasked." said Duinhir of Morthond..  
  
"My Lord, my Men did not march for Minas Tirith at the behest of a Captain of Rangers." Angbor told him firmly.  
  
"Nor did mine." said Ciryandil. "We have come to follow and serve the Returned King.  
  
Then it was Hurin's turn again. "My very dear and stubborn Lord," He said with both affection and exasperation, "what will it take to convince you that the only Man in Gondor like to oppose the return of the King lies dead by his own hand?"  
  
The King rubbed his eyes, seeming suddenly weary. "We cannot afford division in our ranks, not now."   
  
"My Lord," said Duinhir, "giving us a King to rally around will not make for divisions - far from it!"  
  
He gave them another long, considering look, then slowly nodded. "Very well then. I would have chosen to leave this matter to the days of peace, should they come, but if you will have it so then I will declare myself now. In the high tongue of old I am Elessar, the Elfstone, and Envinyatar, the Renewer. Elendil's heir of Arnor and Gondor, and by right of blood your King."  
  
"How splendid." the Halfling Peregrin beamed at them from his window seat. "Congratulations Strider!"  
  
A rustle of amusement passed over the Men at the council table. Imrahil of Dol Amroth laughed aloud. "It is we who are to be congratulated, Master Peregrin. But is 'Strider' a fit name for a King?"  
  
"It will be the name of my house, if I live to found one." Elessar said with a smile for his small friend. "And it will sound fairer in Quenya; 'Telcontar' I will be, and all the heirs of my body.  
  
'Hail Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor!" said Hurin. "And now, what are the King's commands?"

"I mean to march in two days, no more," said Elessar. "And I will take with me only Men who go willingly, knowing their peril."

Imrahil smiled. "I misdoubt there is a Man in Gondor who would not follow the King to whatever end. Yet the City must not be left undefended, for I hear from King Eomer that there is an army still unfought upon our northern flank.

The young King of Rohan frowned. "If we must ride soon, then I cannot hope to lead even two thousands and yet leave as many for the defense of the City.

"I have brought four thousand Men with me." said Angbor. "And Ciryandil has one or two thousands more?" he looked questioningly at the shipmaster beside him.

"Little over one thousand when I left the Harlond dock," he said. "but they were still coming, as many as could find a craft in which to follow the King up the River."

"We could lead out seven thousands of horse and foot and still leave the City better defended than it was." Elessar said crisply. "Seven thousand then I will take if we can find so many willing."

"We should go mostly afoot for the no-man's lands are an evil country for horses. Eomer, I would have the main part of your Riders remain behind to guard the western road against the army in Anorien and we must send out riders to scout the lands north and eastward." the King glanced over his shoulder at the grey cloaked Dunedain at his right hand. "Halladan?"

"It will be done, Dundadan."

"Hurin, I charge you with the defense of the City."

The Man made a move as if to protest, checked himself, then grinned. "Revenging yourself, Dunadan?"

The King smiled in reply. "A little perhaps. But I wish also to leave my City, and my Queen, in safe hands." at that the Men's eyes turned to the Elven lady ensconced in one of the window seats. "But I forget, not all of you know my wife, Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond Half-Elven, twin brother to Elros Tar-Minyatur."

The Captains rose up and bowed to the Queen, who smiled graciously in reply.

The King also stood. "Go now and choose your Men, but remember I want only those who are willing and understand what they risk."

"This is the last move in a great jeopardy," Mithrandir said gravely. "and for one side or the other it will bring the end of the game."

1. I know the book calls him Lord of Lamedon but that just doesn't make sense. Why would the Lord of an upland dale be defending a coastal city? More to the point the folk of Lamedon apparently don't have a lord since their men come to Minas Tirith without a Captain.

2. This is a bit of my own history making: Tarondor was the seventh king of Arnor - 515 to 602 - but his name means 'King of Gondor, an odd choice you'll agree. As his reign and his father's coincide with the first Easterling attacks on Gondor I have postulated that King Ostoher of Gondor (411- 492) appealed to Tarcil of Arnor (435-515) for aid, (Gondor still being young and poor at that time) and for a short time the kingdoms were reunited with the High King's Heir, Tarondor, co-ruling the southern realm with Ostoher and his successor Tarostar. However once the danger was past Tarostar ousted Tarondor, who fled back to Arnor, and established himself as sole ruler taking the name 'Romendacil' meaning 'east victor' but was slain in battle against the Easterlings shortly afterwards.

This scenario is based on an early version of the rejection of Isildur's Line by Gondor found in the HoME.


	22. After the Debate

"Are you angry with me, Gandalf?" Pippin ventured as he and the wizard made their way down the winding avenue to see Merry in the Houses of Healing.

Gandalf shook his head with a wry smile. "Not angry, just wondering how I could have been fool enough to let you in for all this."

"It wasn't your doing, we wanted to come." Pippin said firmly.

"I know." the wizard sighed. "And my heart told me it was right to let you and Merry join us, certainly events here in the south would have gone ill without the two of you."

"Merry helped kill the Witch King of course, " Pippin said dubiously, "but I can't see what I've done - beyond making more trouble for everybody."

"Hmmm." Gandalf gave him a sharp sidelong glance, a flash of blue from under bushy white eyebrows. "Was it or was it not you, Peregrin Took, who tricked Treebeard into bearing you and Merry to the south marches of his forest and so discovering the devastation Saruman had wrought?"

Pippin blushed a little. "That was a dirty trick." he admitted. "But he had to find out about it eventually, so why not when it would do us some good?"

"Quite." the wizard agreed calmly. "And thanks to your trick Isengard was reduced and Saruman's power destroyed."

Pippin blinked. "So it was."

"And then there was the matter of the Palantir."

"But that was a terrible mistake," Pippin protested, "awful things might have come of it, you told me so yourself."

"So they might have." said Gandalf. "But instead we were forewarned of Sauron's attack on Minas Tirith, and he gained the mistaken idea that you are the Ringbearer which we can now use to our advantage."

"I suppose that's true too." Pippin conceded in some surprise.

"And finally Faramir would now be dead, as well as his father, had you not been there to go for help."

Pippin shuddered, as always, at the memory of Denethor's pyre. Then forced a smile. "All right, I'm convinced. I have been of some use after all."

"If mostly in spite of yourself." the wizard agreed dryly.

Pippin laughed. "Good old Gandalf! No chance of me getting a swelled head with you around is there?"

Merry did not take the news at all well. "Have you gone mad, Pip?" he demanded. "And, Gandalf, what are you and Strider thinking of to let him do it?"

"Peregrin is not a child, Merry," the wizard answered quietly, "and we will not treat him as one. He knows very well what he is doing - and why."

"It's for Frodo, Merry," Pippin said pleadingly, "that was the whole reason for our coming along in the first place - to help Frodo."

"So it was." Merry took a deep breath, visibly struggled to calm himself. "I'm sorry, Pippin, it's just I've been looking out for you since we were teens and it's hard to break the habit." then rather defiantly to Gandalf. "Well if Pip goes so do I!"

"That is for King Eomer to decide." the wizard answered calmly. "You are his sworn man, remember?"

"Bother!" Merry frowned suspiciously at him. "But if Eomer agrees, you and Strider won't try to stop me will you?"

Gandalf shook his head.

"I'll be glad to have you along, Merry," Pippin admitted rather shamefacedly. "fact is I'm scared silly. The Lady said I'd find my courage - but it hasn't happened yet."

Gandalf took his pipe out of his mouth. "My dear, Pippin, just what do you think courage is? You have shown yours many times, most lately by offering to play the part of the Ringbearer."

"Even though the whole idea scares me half to death?" Pippin asked bewildered.

"Even so. Courage is doing what must be done is spite of your fears." he raised his bushy eyebrows as high as they would go. "Do you think I am not afraid?"

Both Hobbits stared at him. "You, Gandalf?" Merry asked wonderingly.

Yes me!" said the wizard. "Even without the Ring Sauron is mightier than I. I fear to face him yet I will do so for Frodo's sake, and for Aragorn's."

Pippin produced a strained semblance of his old cocky grin. "You mean I'm going to go right on feeling sick with terror courage or no?"

Gandalf smiled gently back. "I am afraid so."

Pippin took a deep breath. "Well that's a bit of a disappointment, I must say. I'll just have to get used to it I suppose.

Merry's next visitor, after Gandalf and Pippin had lunched with him and gone, was conveniently enough the new King of Rohan himself. Merry blurted out his request before the Man had a chance to say so much as hello: "Eomer - I mean my Lord - may I ride with the army to the Black Gates?"

"Certainly." he replied promptly, "providing you are fit enough."

"I'm sure I will be," Merry said. Relieved and obscurely pleased by Eomer's matter of fact acceptance. "I feel almost my old self already."

The Man sighed. "I would I could say the same of my sister."

"They said she was getting better!" Merry cried.

"So she is. But she is still very weak and her spirits are low. I was hoping you would pay her a visit, Merry. I have told her you are safe and well but she had many evil dreams during her illness and cannot be at peace until she sees you with her own eyes."

"I know the feeling." Merry nodded. "Of course I'll go. Right now if you like." he threw back the coverlet and got out of bed.

"Thank you." Eomer said, looking relieved, then added hastily. "Do not tell her you mean to march with the army. She is angry that she will not be allowed to do so."

Merry finished pulling on his breeches and grinned. "That sounds like her. But she was much worse hurt than me, she can't possibly be fit to go."

"She is not." Eomer agreed. "On top of all else she has a broken shield arm. I would not let any Man ride out in such condition and told her so."

"I won't say a word." Merry promised, tucking in his shirt. "Now, where is her room?"

Eowyn didn't look well at all. She was lying, propped up with pillows, staring at but not out of the window near her bed. It took a moment or two for her to rouse herself enough to look around and see who'd entered her room. When she did and her face lit up.

"Merry!" She held out her good hand to him. He crossed the room to take it, and it was warm and strong again just as it should be. "I am so glad to see you." she continued. "I was afraid you'd been crushed by the Mumakil."

"I thought you had been too." he answered. "Until I saw you and - and him."

They both shuddered. Then Eowyn forced a smile; "You saved my life, Merry, thank you."

"It wasn't very heroic," Merry said ruefully, "stabbing from behind like that."

"Oh yes it was." she contradicted firmly. "Just getting near enough that thing for a blow..." she shuddered again at the memory.

"Let's not talk about it." said Merry with a shiver.

"No," she agreed, "nor think about it either. It's over. He is gone."

Merry groped for something else to talk about. "Did you hear what happened after we were hurt? About Strider and the ghosts and all?"

She shook her head. "No, tell me."

So he did. All about the Dead Men of Dunharrow, which she seemed to understand a great deal better than he did, and how Aragorn had been accepted as King at last.

Her face went oddly still when he mentioned old Strider, which Merry didn't understand at all until she said. "My brother tells me King Elessar means to attack Mordor itself."

Merry swallowed. "Yes, they told me that too. It's not as mad as it sounds, Eowyn. Aragorn - the King that is - and Gandalf know what they're doing. It'll be all right, you'll see." She looked at him as if he'd lost his wits and he couldn't blame her, but to his own surprise he found meant every word. "No, really, I have this feeling that somehow everything's going to work out fine." he shrugged helplessly. "I know I sound daft."

She smiled sadly. "I wish I could share your hope, Merry. But I can't. This is the End, if not for all, at least for me."

"Please don't say that, Eowyn." he begged.

She put her good arm around him. "I'm sorry, Merry, I shouldn't trouble you with my dark forebodings."

"Maybe it's just your illness." he suggested hopefully. "I'm sure you'll feel better once you're a little stronger."

"Maybe so." she said, but he could tell she didn't believe it.

After the council Aragorn led his companions back to their borrowed quarters where they found the remaining Northern Rangers assembled, patiently awaiting further orders, which Halladan promptly gave them.

He assigned pairs to scout northward and eastward to the River and beyond. Those who went north and as far as the River were to return in two days to march with the army, but those who passed over the River into Ithilien and the no-man's lands were instead to await the army at set rendezvous.

"Elledhir, Adanedhel, Menelgil, Arthamir, Dagorlas and Glingol you will remain here with the Dunadan." Halladan finished, with one eye fixed defiantly upon his foster brother.

Aragorn said nothing. It would be as well to have a few of his own Men with their special skills on hand, but he was not pleased by the mistrust which he knew had prompted the order. The Northern Dunedain's view of their Southern kin as treacherous oathbreakers was understandable, given their history, but unjust to the current generation who had inherited the consequences of their forefathers' sins, but committed none of their own - at least not against the North.

The scouts saluted him and left. Aragorn turned to Beregond, waiting silent and patient as any Ranger in his corner. "Come with me, kinsman, and bring the stone." He saw apprehension on Arwen's face as he led the way into a small inner room but she made no protest. He was grateful she had accepted his decision so gracefully, not even demanding to come with him as he had feared. But he should have expected no less. She was Elrond's daughter, and like her father and brothers would do whatever must be done to defeat their Enemy - however hard.

The small room adjoined both bedroom and antechamber and had been furnished as a study. Beregond set the Palantir, closely wrapped in layers of dark silk, down on the center table. "My Lord," he said quietly, "I would like to tell you how the stone came into my hands."

Aragorn nodded consent. He was, he admitted ruefully to himself, in no hurry to face this confrontation. And Beregond's expression made it clear he considered what he had to say a matter of no small import. Baranor, his father, had been a level headed Man of sound judgment and Aragorn adjudged the son to be the same. So he listened as Beregond told in brief, unvarnished words of Denethor's madness, his attempt to destroy his son as well as himself by fire and how he, Beregond, had broken his oaths as a Fountain guard and shed a comrade's blood to save Faramir.

"I spoke to the Lord Steward of the west wind and how it drove back the darkness but he took no hope from it. Instead he uncovered the Palantir, which he had there with him, and commanded me to look in it. I did so and saw the Corsair ships, your ships, my Lord, though we did not yet know it, sailing for the City. I believe it was that sight drove Denethor to his final madness."

Aragorn did not doubt it. He closed his eyes in a spasm of grief - and guilt. "She said I would be his death."

"My Lord?"

He opened his eyes. "The Lady Finduilas. When I served Ecthelion as Thorongil she told me I would bring Denethor to his death, though not by my own hand or even by my will."

"He brought himself to death." Beregond answered flatly. "He and no other chose every step of the path that led to his pyre."

"That too is true." Aragorn agreed, and sighed.

Then Beregond said rather more gently. "Denethor is as much to be pitied as condemned. He withstood much for many long years, but in the end his strength failed him." he shook his head. "I only wish Peregrin had not seen his lord's end. I fear it will haunt him."

"No doubt it will." Aragorn said. Then he smiled, thinking of his small friend: "But Pippin is stronger than even he knows. He will remember but he will not let the remembrance needlessly darken his heart."

"I hope so." said Beregond, and bowed his head. "I thought the King should know I stand before him as both oathbreaker and man slayer. I ask for his justice."

"You shall have it." Aragorn promised. He looked at the Palantir. "But now other duties call me."

Beregond bowed and left. Aragorn took a deep breath and unwrapped the swaddled stone. It shone glassy black between his hands, then a red spark flickered to life in its heart, and grew....


	23. The Palantir

A slit pupil, black as the pit and fringed by flames glared out of the crystal depths of the Palantir. "I see you! I see you!"

Aragorn knew very well what Pippin had sensed by instinct; to speak to the Dark Lord was to open your mind to him. And he knew too that Sauron was not seeing the weary, unkempt Ranger that was his physical form but something altogether more threatening; the fierce white light of the power of the King of Men unveiled.

Sauron's will battered against his hard held silence. "Who are you? Who are you?"

He answered not in words but with an image: Himself, Anduril burning in his hand, ascending the throne of Gondor. And he felt the Dark Lord's mind explode in rage - and fear.

A whirlwind of threats tore at Aragorn's silence. Images of death and destruction; Minas Tirith in flames, the butchered bodies of his friends, and Arwen - Arwen lying pale and dead, half covered by dry brown leaves.

His spirit reeled and almost faltered - but not quite. Coldly, deliberately, he formed an image of his own: Of Isildur cutting the Ring from the Dark Lord's hand, of the mere Man who had brought him down just as victory was in his grasp. Sauron writhed in an agony of shame and denial and Aragorn, gathering his strength, sliced the Palantir free from his will as cleanly as Isildur had severed him from his power an Age ago.

The crystal went dark, clear and cool and empty. An instrument waiting to be used. Aragorn buried his face in shaking hands. The image of Arwen's death had pierced him to the soul. For that would happen now and nothing he could do would change it. Win or lose Aragorn knew that he was going to die, and his death would now be hers as well. He spent a moment bitterly regretting all the years he'd wasted trying to change her mind. The ending would have been no different, but they'd have had more time together. Then he lowered his hands and readdressed himself to the Palantir. Now that it was free it would be a pity not to get some use out of it.

Ten pale faces turned to him as he opened the door to the antechamber. He steadied himself for a moment against the doorframe.

"Did you see him?" Gimli demanded. "What did you say to him?"

Aragorn barely heard, his eyes fixed on Arwen, alive and watching him anxiously. He crossed the room to take her in his arms and hold her tightly for a moment before pushing her back so he could look into that beautiful face.

Gimli however was not about to be ignored. "Aragorn?"

"Yes, I saw him." he answered, eyes still locked on hers. "But I spoke no word to him, and in the end I wrenched the stone from his control which he will find hard to endure." A touch of satisfaction warmed the cold emptiness of his exhaustion. "He saw me and I showed him the blade reforged. He is not so mighty yet that he is above fear. He is afraid now, and doubt gnaws at him.

He spoke directly to his wife. "Once I had mastered the stone I saw many things. Arwen, I saw Elrond fighting beside our people in the Ettenmoors."

"Of course you did." she said huskily, eyes shining with pride - and fear. "He is Fingolfin's heir and has the blood of Tuor and Beren in his veins. He might send his people to the ships but he would never abandon his kin in their last need." her voice faltered a little "Is he - did you see him fall?"

"No," Aragorn assured her quickly, "no he is safe and whole as far forward as I could See." he grinned suddenly at the memory. "I only wish the twins could have seen him too - I had no idea our Uncle was so formidable a warrior!"

"They saw him fight, long ago in the Witch Wars." Arwen reminded him.

He forced himself to let her go and turned to face the others. "Our people are fighting on the marches of Angmar and in the Moria dale as well as the Ettenmoors." he said quietly to his Rangers. Then to Legolas. "Lorien and the Woodland realm are both under attack from Dol Guldur." and finally; "Gimli, Dale has fallen and Erebor is besieged."

The Dwarf glared fiercely at his boot-tips. Legolas roused himself from his own griefs to lay a gentle hand on his comrade's shoulder.

"One more axe would make no difference." Gimli said gruffly. "And the Ringbearer's quest was a great matter needing the presence of a Dwarf."

"That is true." said Legolas.

Gimli looked up at him, alert for a jibe, but saw at once that Legolas was quite serious. His face softened. "It needed an Elf too."

Legolas smiled a little. "Thank you."

"It was worth attempting - even if the company did fail."

"We did not fail, Gimli." Aragorn told him firmly. "We brought Frodo safe to the marches of Mordor - beyond that we would have been a hindrance and a danger rather than an aid to him. And there was work for us elsewhere."

Slowly the Dwarf nodded. "Aye, I suppose you're right."

Arwen touched his arm. "You are weary, you must rest."

He shook his head. "No. There is too much to be done."

"Indeed," she answered crisply, "and Hurin and the other Captains are doing it. They don't need you breathing down their necks!"

She had a point but - "I should greet the Men Angbor and Ciryandil brought up from the south," he argued, "they deserve at least that much courtesy after coming so far and so quickly at my word."

"Later." his wife said firmly.

"But -" he began.

She stamped her foot. "Estel! Am I going to spend the rest of my life nagging you into being sensible?"

"Probably." said Legolas and four of his Rangers in near chorus.

Gimli chuckled and even somber Beregond smiled.

Aragorn gave them all a mock glare then raised his hands in surrender. "Very well." He glanced quickly at the Gondor Man. "I give the stone back to your charge, kinsman, for now." then hesitated a moment, choosing his words: "as for the other matter - this is not the time for such things. For now you may consider yourself a member of my following. When we return - if we return - I will render judgment."

Beregond bowed and Aragorn turned to obediently follow his wife into the bedroom.

She pulled the curtains, dimming the room to pale twilight, and asked: "What was that all about with Beregond?"

"Our kinsman is troubled." Aragorn answered quietly, sitting on the bed to pull off his boots. "He was forced to break solemn oaths and worse to kill a comrade to save the Lord Faramir's life."

Arwen winced. She knew as well as he how hard a Dunedain, especially one of Ancient House, would take that. "I see. He is not likely to fall into despair and seek death is he?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I think not. He is too level headed for such follies. But his conscience will demand some kind of expiation in due course. I will think of something fitting when I have leisure to consider the problem."

"And in the meantime keep him close so he cannot do himself a mischief."

"Something like that." he agreed, and lay down.

She sat on the edge of the bed and nailed him with a straight look. "Estel, what did you see that troubles you so? Not just scenes of war I think."

"No." he closed his eyes, bracing himself to speak calmly, then opened them to meet hers. "Sauron showed me your death."

"My fate is not in his hands." she said.

"If he gets back the Ring you will die." he answered flatly. and even if he doesn't he thought but did not say.

Arwen, astonishingly, smiled: "But he's not going to get it back is he?"

He stared at her for a long moment, then finally smiled back. "No, he is not. We will give Frodo his chance, and he will put an end to the Ring and to Sauron forever."

"Trust in Frodo," his wife advised, with a kiss, "and sleep." She slipped out the door, closing it gently behind her.

Aragorn closed his eyes, and for all his fears and griefs was asleep in an instant.

A knock sounded on the door of Faramir's chamber. The new Steward raised his eyes from the scroll he was studying to call: "Come in."

It was the Halfling Peregrin, his worried expression becoming a relieved grin at the sight of Faramir up and dressed and reading in the window seat. "They said you were better."

The Man smiled. "Much better, thank you Peregrin. You were right."

The little squire blinked. "I was, about what?"

"About your friend Aragorn. I see now what Boromir saw. He is our King, the King we must have if Gondor is to survive."

Peregrin sighed with relief. "I'm glad you think so too. Did they tell you he's already been accepted by the Council?"

"No, but I am pleased to hear it." Faramir answered with a glint humor in his eye. "They'd have had me to deal with if they hadn't!"

The Halfling plopped himself down on a stool with a gusty sigh of relief. "Then that's all right!"

"It is indeed. Very right."

Peregrin hesitated then took a deep breath as if bracing himself for something. "I - I wanted to talk to you about Denethor." Faramir felt his smile freeze and the Halfling rushed on: "He was sorry for what he said, and sorry for sending you away, and he said you'd done well - much better than anybody else could have." he paused for another gulp of air then forged on. "He was heart broken when he thought you were dying. He did love you, Faramir, very much."

"I know." the Man said quietly. There was something different about Peregrin, an almost haunted look in his eyes. Faramir felt a spurt of unreasoning anger against his father. Wasn't it enough he should hurt his sons? Did he have to harm to his innocent little esquire as well. "Did you see him kill himself, Peregrin?"

The Halfling's mouth dropped open. "I..I..." he took breath. "Yes I did. How did you know?"

"I knew my father." Faramir answered grimly, then softened a little. "I felt his grief, and his despair. And I felt him die."

Peregrin flinched. "It was awful. But your father wasn't in his right mind, Faramir. You were dying and the City falling, it was all just too much for him. And he didn't mean for me to see. He released me from my oath and sent me away - but I came back."

"To save your life." Idril said quietly from the doorway.

"My Lady!" Peregrin interupted reproachfully.

"He has a right to know." she told him, then turned back to her brother. "Father fell into despair, as I warned you he would. He did nothing for the defense of the City, just sat by your bedside watching you fade."

Faramir winced. Idril, pitiless, went on: "Then when the first wall fell he tired of waiting. He had his men attire you for burial and bear you to the House of the Stewards. And there they built a pyre for the two of you. You were to burn together, alive."

Man and Woman both looked at Peregrin. "He released from my oath as I said." he told them steadily. "I ran for help. Beregond came, and Gandalf. They saved you, Faramir. But Denethor -"

"Father was determined to burn, and he did." Idril said flatly. "Along with all your ancestors back to Pelendur. The House of the Stewards lies in ruin."

"And you saw all this." Faramir said quietly to the Halfling. He nodded, two tears leaking out from beneath tightly closed lids. Poor Little One. A fine way for Father to repay his loyalty. "Thank you, Peregrin, I owe you my life."

"Gandalf and I would have been too late if Beregond hadn't left his post and kept Denethor talking until we came."

"Beregond left his post?" Faramir echoed blankly. "But he's a Fountain Guard!"

"I know," Peregrin agreed miserably, "and it gets worse. He had to kill the porter to get by him. I don't know what's going to become of him now. Please, Faramir, you won't let them do anything awful to him will you?"

"No indeed." the Man promised grimly.

"Judgment belongs to King Elessar." Idril reminded them both.

The Halfling's face lit in relief. "Old Strider? oh that's all right then!"

Faramir hoped it would be. But oathbreaking and shedding a comrade's blood, whatever the cause, were serious matters. He did not envy Elessar the decision.

"Please try not to be too angry with your father." Peregrin was saying to Idril. "He wasn't responsible. It was Sauron getting at him through the Palantir -"

"What!" Faramir interupted sharply.

"Father had been looking into the Anor stone," his sister explained. "Apparently for years."

"It's more awful than you can imagine." the Hafling told them earnestly, then shuddered. "At least I hope you can't imagine it. And Denethor did it over and over again. He was very strong but Sauron drove him mad in the end."

"Peregrin," Idril said slowly. "How do you know how terrible it is to match wills with the Dark Lord?"

He blushed. "Because I was an idiot. Gandalf had the Orthanc stone, he got it from Saruman. I - I looked into it." Man and Woman could only stare. "It was - indescribable." Peregrin continued with a shiver. "Like burning alive and freezing to death at the same time. And that voice inside your head, tearing at your mind - well luckily Gandalf got me out of it before I told Sauron anything -"

"You kept silent?" Faramir breathed.

Peregrin nodded. "I had to. But I couldn't have kept it up for long. If Gandalf hadn't rescued me..." he shivered again.

Faramir looked at him in wonder. To resist the will of the Dark Lord was no mean feat. It seemed Peregrin had far more strength and courage than his childlike appearance would suggest - like his cousin Frodo. "You are a brave man, Peregrin Took."

"Not a Man," he corrected, "a Hobbit. And not all that brave either - though I am trying!"

Pippin's next visit was to Merry. He found him in the garden, standing at the wall looking at the fire and darkness in the east.

"It's all settled," Merry told him. "Eomer's going to take me as his squire."

Pippin sighed with relief. "I am glad. At least we'll all be together. No more of this business of being split up and scattered all over the landscape."

Merry nodded agreement. "All but Frodo and Sam."

"And Boromir." said Pippin.

For a long moment neither of them spoke as they stood there watching Mount Doom belch fire at the black clouds over Mordor. Finally Merry said firmly: "We will see the Shire again, Pippin. All four of us."

"I know." his cousin answered quietly, but Merry wasn't sure Pippin really believed it.


	24. Recovery

Peregrin rose to take his leave. "With your permission, m'Lord, m'Lady, I'd like to look in on my cousin Merry before I go back on duty."

"Of course." Faramir said promptly. "Thank you for coming, Peregrin, and for all your other services to my House."

The Hobbit bowed and shot Idril a reproachful look on his way out.

"Master Peregrin is displeased with you." Faramir observed after the door had closed behind him.

"Peregrin doesn't know how much you hate having things kept from you." she retorted crisply.

"True." said Faramir. Then added quietly. "I knew he had killed himself - learning how is no great shock."

"I told you so." Idril said flatly.

"You did." her brother conceded. "But had I fallen at his side on the walls would it not have led to this same end?"

"He might have died better." she replied.

Perhaps. They'd never know. "The attack was worth attempting, Idril. It failed for a reason none of us could have anticipated. Who ever heard of Orcs using massed bows?"

"That must have been Angmar," she said, "only a Man, or what used to be a Man, would have thought of that. But archers or no I still say you'd have done better to keep your Men and yourself within the walls!"

He laughed. "Stubborn as ever, Little Sister!" then he looked at her thoughtfully. She was wearing yellow, not mourning, with neither a veil nor the rich jewels their father had always insisted upon. She was rejecting the strictures Denethor had placed upon her, and perhaps his memory as well. "Father deserves pity rather than anger, Idril."

She sighed. "So I tell myself, but anger comes easier. You were a fool to follow his orders but his was the greater folly, meddling with that deadly stone. Still - Peregrin is right. Father was not himself, and has not been for years. A stranger saw at once what his own children could not."

"The change was a slow one," said Faramir, "too slow for us to see." then he remembered: "But Boromir felt there was something wrong, he spoke to me of it several times."

Idril's frowned. "Could he have known about the seeing stone?"

After a moment Faramir nodded. "Very likely. If Father ever confided in anyone it would be his heir."

"Boromir wouldn't have liked it." she said with certainty. "He would have tried to make Father stop."

"And if Denethor could not be persuaded by his favorite you or I would have had no better fortune." said her brother. "We could not have saved him."

"I wonder if anybody could have...." Idril mused. "Maybe your mother?"

"Maybe." he said. "That is something we can never know. Had she lived many things would have been different."

"I will try not to think too ill of Father, as Peregrin said." Idril promised. Then she smiled and came over to kiss his cheek. "Thank the Valar for sending King Elessar. Even a fool of a brother is better than none!"

He laughed. "Thank the Valar and the One above them for our King!"

"Have you heard what he means to do?" his sister asked settling herself in the window seat beside him. He shook his head and she smiled wickedly. "He is gathering troops to march upon the Black Gates."

For a moment Faramir was nonplussed, then he remembered Frodo and Samwise. They should be inside Mordor by now, Elessar must be trying to draw the Eye from them. "How is it you are not battering his ears with your protests, Sister?"

"I know better than to treat my King like my brother." she answered primly. "And matters have changed somewhat. No, I like the idea of attacking Mordor very well." she lowered her voice slightly. "Queen Undomiel has told me why - you already know the reason I think?"

"I do." he said as quietly. Then frowned in surprise. "What did you say - what queen is this?"

"Our King's wife of course. Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond of Rivendell." she laughed. "I wish you could see the look on your face."

Faramir collected himself. "How was I to know the King was wed?" he demanded defensively, "and to an Elf at that!"

Idril shook her head. "A half-Elf like her father and her uncle Elros Tar-Minyatur. By marrying Elessar she has chosen to become Mortal. She counts herself a Woman now, pointed ears or no."

"Have they an heir?" Faramir asked.

Again Idril shook her head. "No. They've scarce been married a week Undomiel says, though they've been handfasted for far longer."

Faramir's frown deepened. "Then if Elessar falls we are left kingless again?"

"Assuming Gondor survives at all." she pointed out. "But he has some kinsmen with him, perhaps one of them is his heir."

"We will have to establish that." her brother said. "The law says the King may not risk himself in battle unless he leaves an heir in safety behind him."

"I will leave it to you to raise the question with him, Steward." Idril said dryly.

The first thing Pippin saw when he followed Lord Hurin into the anteroom of Strider's apartment was Beregond sitting on a couch by an inner door, an open book in his hand. The Hobbit ran to him.

"There you are!" he exclaimed with relief. "I've been looking all over for you."

"You should have asked Hiril." The Man answered mildly, shutting his book. "She would have told you I had gone to the King."

"Er, yes. I didn't think of that." Pippin answered awkwardly. In fact he'd been afraid to ask. What if Hiril didn't know either? He'd only scare her - and the poor lady didn't need that. "Anyway you have nothing to worry about. Strider - the King I mean - will understand you had to do what you did."

Beregond smiled gently at him. "I am not worried."

The four Rangers scattered around the room had also been beguiling the time with the Lady Idril's library. Hurin addressed himself to the Man by the bedroom door. "The Dunadan's not awake yet?"

The Ranger shook his head, a glint of humor just visible. "No. And it would be more than my life's worth to disturb him for anything less than a personal assault by the Dark Lord."

Hurin laughed. "The Lady Arwen's orders I take it?"

The Man nodded, then looked over his shoulder at the door, alerted by some sound only audible to Ranger ears. It opened and Aragorn emerged; clean, brushed and clad in robes of grey and crimson embellished with gold and silver needlework.

He looked so regal that for a moment Pippin could only gape, then he found his voice. "My word, Strider, don't you look grand!"

The two Gondor Men laughed out loud and even the Rangers showed quiet amusement.

Aragorn smiled at him, "Thank you, Pippin." then he turned to Hurin. "How goes the muster? Are enough Men willing to go?"

"Too many. As Imrahil said, all are ready to follow the King."

Aragorn frowned. "You must make clear the peril."

Hurin all but rolled his eyes. "Nobody expects a march to the Black Gates to be a merry maying expedition, Dunadan!" his voice lowered slightly. "Naturally we have not told them it is a diversion, or about the Ringbearer. But we have said that while the King expects this attack to give us victory it is very likely none who make will return. Is that sufficient?"

"I do wish you wouldn't say things like that, m'Lord." Pippin put in a little forlornly. "It might turn out all right - after all nobody thought we'd survive the siege either did they?"

"Very true, Pippin." Aragorn agreed. "But we must consider the worst as well as the best when making our plans. And the Men must know what they risk."

"That's true." the Hobbit conceded.

"Now then," Aragorn continued to Hurin, "I would like to give my greetings to the Men from the South, and then have a look at the City defenses." he glanced around. "Where is my wife?"

"She went off with the Lady Idril some hours ago, Dunadan," answered the Ranger at his shoulder, "after leaving those clothes and threatening us with the direst fates compassed in her spellcraft should we wake you before time."

"And you obeyed her to the letter as was wise." Aragorn said with some amusement, then turned to Hurin. "Who is this Lady Idril, Hurinya?"

"Narcil and Almiel's daughter." he replied. "Born after you left Gondor. Both their boys died young of the wasting and Narcil fell soon after in a skirmish on the Northern March." he shook his head sadly. "So many losses so close together were too much for Almiel's strength, she died bearing Idril and the little girl became Denethor's ward."

"And so Lady of Gondor." Aragorn nodded. "That explains all, thank you Hurin."

"As you see the Gate is destroyed," Prince Imrahil told the King and his companions as they stood beneath the empty archway, "and where now is the skill to remake it?"

"In Erebor, in the Kingdom of Dain.' Gimli answered promptly. "If by some chance we should survive this expedition I will send for Mountain wrights to make you gates that no foe will break."

"A generous offer, Master Dwarf, for which we are grateful," said Imrahil. "But what do we do now?"

"Men are better than gates," said Aragorn in voice deliberately pitched to reach the eagerly listening ears crowded at a respectful distance around them, "and no gate will endure against our Enemy if Men desert it."

"Well said, my Lord," Hurin answered, "but what of the Women and children, should they be sent into Lossarnach?"

"That is just the question we have been debating." the crowd parted for Arwen Undomiel,

radiant in a blue gown all aglimmer with threads of gold, and with blue and yellow flowers braided in her long hair. She was followed by several other Women including one almost as tall as she, and another much shorter.

Aragorn broke into a smile at the sight of her, then bent to kiss her hand. "And what have you decided, my Lady?"

"Nothing yet." Arwen turned to one of her companions, "The Lady Idril here argues for it."

"At present everybody is crowded into the fourth, fifth and sixth circles," the small Woman in the yellow gown explained, "and the greater part of our siege stores have been spoiled or destroyed. Under such conditions sickness is perilously likely. Lossarnach would be healthier for the bulk of our people until the lower circles are habitable again."

"A well considered argument." said Aragorn. "Who is against it?"

"I am." Arwen answered. "The threat of sickness is real, but Emeldir of Endorien told me long ago that folk do best in their own place, no matter how ruinous, and my experience in the old wars proved her right."

Aragorn considered. "What of the water supply, is it clean?"

"Yes," Idril answered, "the enemy had not the time to meddle with it."

"Then they may stay." he decided. "Food can be brought from Lossarnach as easily as the people sent there, and many hands will lighten the work of rebuilding." he smiled at his distant kinswoman. "I trust my wife has already thanked you for all your kindness to us, Lady Idril."

Yellow eyes, like her father Narcil's, looked up at him. "A small return for my brother's life." she answered, then smiled radiantly. "Thank you for Faramir."

"I forsee I will have good cause to be grateful for him myself in days to come." Aragorn answered, studying her closely. The last of the Anarioni could make a great deal of trouble for Isildur's Heir if she chose, but he saw at once she had no more intention of opposing him than Faramir or Imrahil.

The lack of resistance continued to surprise him, he couldn't believe a thousand years of obdurate denial had just disappeared overnight. Sooner or later he would be challenged, of that he was certain, but it would not be by Idril. And hopefully not until after Sauron was defeated.


	25. Farewells

The two days of the muster of the Army of the West passed quickly, for there was much to do and little time to do it in. The Ranger scouts returned with good news; Elfhelm and the Riders of Rohan had scattered the Orc and Easterling army in Anorien and sent them fleeing northward towards Cair Andros. And in the ruins of Osgilliath the Northern Rangers discovered nearly a score of Faramir's Men who had not only managed to hide themselves from the Enemy but to cut the bridge over the Anduin for a few key hours, so that the Haradrim came late to the field - after Rohan had broken the Orc army. The City was as secure as it might be and the road eastward clear. All was ready for the final throw.

Half past noon on the second day Merry knelt at the feet of Eomer King, in the Lady Eowyn's chamber in the Houses of Healing, and received from him a short sword and a shield ensigned with the running horse. "Rise now Meriadoc Holdwine, Knight of the Riddermark!"

Merry blinked rather blankly up at him. "Pardon?"

Eomer laughed. "Holdwine, 'true friend' I call you in our tongue. And a true friend you have been to all our House. Will you serve as my esquire as you served my uncle, Sir Meriadoc?"

Merry got to his feet and bowed. "I would be honored, my Lord."

Eowyn was lying in the big bed, propped up with pillows but smiling almost happily. She beckoned Merry to her and kissed him. "Hail Sir Holdwine!" she said. "I count on you to take care of my brother for me."

"I will." he promised.

"But who's going to take care of Merry?" Pippin wondered.

"Merry can take care of himself." said Gandalf, and cocked an eyebrow down at Pippin. "As can you, my lad." And the young Hobbit blushed with embarrassed pleasure.

A knock on the door preceded the entrance of the two Women who attended Eowyn, both carrying trays of dishes. Merry and Eomer settled down to share the Lady's lunch but Pippin and Gandalf excused themselves and went down the passage to see Faramir.

They found him sitting at a table piled high with books. "What's this?" Gandalf asked picking them up one by one and reading the titles: "'Annals of King Eldacar' 'A History of the Kinstrife', 'On the Royal Succession', 'Of the Restoration of the True King', 'The Accession of King Earnil II'...?"

"I am looking for precedents." Faramir explained and grimaced. "Unfortunately it seems King Elessar has no legal right to the Throne of Gondor."

"What!" Pippin exclaimed in horror, "but Faramir, you said you wanted him for King -!"

"I do," the Man answered, "we all do, Peregrin. But laws were made long ago by Men who did not want Isildur's Heirs to rule in Gondor, and now I must find some way around them."

"Can't you just change them?" Pippin demanded.

Gandalf snorted and Faramir smiled wryly. "I don't know how such things are managed in your Shire, Peregrin, but in Gondor the making or changing of law is no simple matter."

"Give the matter to the Great Council of the Realm and Aragorn will be a grandsire before he is crowned." said the Wizard grimly.

Faramir nodded rueful agreement, then smiled reassuringly at Pippin. "Never fear, Peregrin, I studied law as well as literature and lore. I will find a way."

"I certainly hope so." said the Hobbit, and sighed gustily. "Honestly, Faramir, sometimes I think you Men deliberately set out to make things as hard as possible for yourselves and everybody else!"

"It's not deliberate, Peregrin," Faramir assured him, "at least not usually."

Gandalf snorted again, then the bells rang the seventh hour.

"Bother!" said Pippin. "I have to go back on duty. I'm glad to see you so much better Faramir."

"Thank you, Peregrin. And would you do me the favor of asking Beregond to come see me?"

"I'd be happy to." the Hobbit answered with a short bow before heading for the door. "See you later Gandalf."

Faramir smiled after him. "Remarkable creatures these Hobbits, so small and vulnerable and yet so brave." he glanced at Gandalf. "To resist the Dark Lord's will, even for a few moments, is no mean feat. Peregrin doesn't know his own strength."

"No, and I hope you didn't tell him." the wizard answered crisply. "He's thoroughly ashamed of that little incident, and it's best he stay that way. It might keep him from taking any more foolish risks."

"All is risk now." said Faramir, then sighed. "I am worried about Beregond. He will take oathbreaking and bloodshedding hard."

"Ah," said Gandalf, "you know him do you?"

Faramir nodded. "He was a Citadel Guard when Boromir and I were boys, and our first arms-master. Father had a prejudice against him, I never knew why."

"Something to do with his family, I believe." said the Wizard.

"Very likely. Boromir said it was foolish - but there was no arguing Father out of it." Faramir grimaced. "Bad blood, good blood, we Gondorim are far to concerned with ancestry and not enough with what a Man is."

"I couldn't agree more." said Gandalf.

Beregond arrived not long after the Wizard left, having now no duties to detain him. "I am glad to see you so recovered, my Lord." he said formally. "No doubt you are concerned about the fate of the Anor stone. Mithrandir entrusted it to my keeping as you were unfit at that time for the charge. And I gave it into the hands of the King. He has since had it returned to its place in the uppermost chamber -"

"Beregond!" Faramir interrupted, "I did not call you here for a report."

The other Man fell silent, waiting respectfully for orders. Faramir sighed in exasperation. Beregond had always had a way of using formality to keep others at a distance. His reserve would have been exceptional even in a Dunedain of Ancient House and was quite extraordinary in a commoner. He had unbent long ago with a small boy, but the boy was now a Man and his superior officer.

"Are you all right." Faramir asked bluntly.

"Well enough." the other Man answered quietly, then his stiff soldier's bearing softened and he almost smiled. "I have placed the matter in King Elessar's hands and am content to await his judgment. Peregrin tells me I have nothing to worry about."

"I agree with him." said Faramir, thinking wryly that Elessar's real problem would be finding some penalty that would appease Beregond's aching conscience without displeasing the people, who had sided solidly with the Guardsman, by its harshness. "I have thanked Mithrandir and Peregrin, I wish also to thank you for my life. And even more for trying to save my father."

"Even tempered steel will break at the last," Beregond said quietly. "and Denethor had had much, in the end too much, to bear."

"Yes," Faramir agreed as quietly. "Even the strongest have their limits. It was my father's misfortune that the darkness of these times pushed him beyond his." he turned the subject. "I hear you will be riding with the army."

Beregond nodded. "My first campaign." he said a little wryly.

"Try not to make it your last." Faramir said, quite seriously.

"I will." Beregond promised and Faramir was satisfied. He himself had almost thrown his life away in a fit of grief and despair, but saw his old friend was too level headed do the same.

It was early evening when the King came to the Houses of Healing to see his Steward. He found Faramir lying on his bed frowning over a dusty tome which he put quickly aside at the sight of his visitor and started to rise.

Elessar waved him back. "Leave that. I am here as your physician not your King." He took Faramir's pulse and laid a light hand on his brow to check for fever - and other things - then smiled. "You are doing well and are a credit to me. Yet I would have you remain in the care of this House at least a tenday more. Your body and mind have been sorely tried for many years, give them a little time to rest before you make more demands upon them."

"As you wish, my Lord and healer." Faramir answered, studying his sovereign closely.

The King was dressed now as became his rank, in deep green velvet and silk gilded with embroideries of gold thread, and washed clean of the grime of travel and battle. Yet there was still a hint of something - not weariness exactly but a kind of strain - shadowing his eyes and honing the strong bones of his face. "How many long years have you been hard tried, my King?" Faramir asked softly. "And when will you take rest?"

A flash of laughter lightened that usually sad face and the deep eyes glinted. "I am the physician here, my lord Steward." Elessar said, mock sternly, then smiled openly. "Never fear for me. I have a wife and a number of determined and persistent Men to see that I take proper care of myself."

And are more than equal to all of them. Faramir thought, but said out loud: "The army marches tomorrow."

The King's smile vanished. "Yes.'

"My Lord, by the law of Gondor the King may not ride out to war unless he leaves behind an heir of years to rule."

"So the Council has already told me." Elessar replied calmly. "I have such an heir. He is Gilvagor son of Armegil, my father's brother, and my own foster son."

"You have him here with you?" Faramir asked.

Elessar shook his head. "No. He remained in the North as my deputy."

"That fulfills the law," Faramir admitted, "yet it would be hard for Gondor to regain her King only to lose him again. Will you come back to us, my Lord?"

"I do not know." the King answered softly. "From the day I first set my foot upon this road I have been unable to see its end." he turned away, moving to the window to look eastward, towards the Enemy. "I do not know." he said again, but strongly and with a ring of conviction. "But I believe these days will see Sauron's end. The Ringbearer will succeed in his quest and Middle Earth be freed from the Shadow."

"But you do not believe you will live to see that end." Faramir said to his back.

Elessar turned. "I do not know." he said yet again, heavily. "I know only that I will do what I must, whatever the end may be." then he smiled gently, trying to reassure. "I do not want to die, Faramir. If I can come back I will, but I can only promise not yield up my life easily, not that I will succeed in keeping it."

"I understand." At least the King was not riding out almost eager for death as Faramir himself had done just a few days ago. There was a healthy share of fear behind those level eyes, as well as the courage to master it. "We must hold to hope."

Elessar nodded somberly. "Always. Hope is the strength of Men."

Aragorn had thought long and hard about his next visit, whether it might not do more harm than good. But the Lady Eowyn was not only his patient but his friend, and had been a kind and gracious hostess to him. To not see her would be a grave discourtesy. Finally he left the decision to her, sending to ask if she would receive him. She decided that she would.

A Woman in the service of the Healers, grey gowned and veiled, opened the door to him. Eowyn was sitting, well wrapped, propped up in a cushioned chair set beneath a window open to the sweet night air and garden scents. She was deathly pale, save for two spots of color high on her cheeks, and her eyes were feverishly bright. Aragorn's heart ached at the sight of her.

He bowed. "My Lady, I come to see how you fare and if there is any more service I can do you before my departure tomorrow." far too stiff and formal but talking to her like a father or elder brother, which was how he felt, would have been even worse.

"I would ride with you." she answered.

"You are not fit for such a journey," he answered, "and your brother and King has forbidden it. If he falls you will be the last of the House of Eorl, your people will need you, Eowyn."

"He will fall, as will we all wherever the black tide overtakes us!" she cried. "I would die with those I love, is that asking so much?"

"You seek death, Eowyn, and that is not defiance but surrender." he heard the steel edging his voice and stopped. No, sternness was not meet for this case. Eowyn was no malingerer but a young Woman tried beyond her strength. Her despair was all too understandable.

He knelt before her chair, put his hand over her cold one and felt her quiver at the touch. "Eowyn, you have struck the greatest blow in all this war by depriving the Enemy of his chief captain. It may well be that Minas Tirith stands and I still live only because of you. If this hand accomplished so much cannot others do the same? And together may we not topple Sauron from his throne? Lady I have fought the Shadow for more years than you have been alive and I tell you there is yet hope - there is always hope!"

But his words kindled no answering spark. He could not give Eowyn what she needed, he could only pray that somewhere there was one who could - and that she would find him soon. He rose; "Hail and farewell, Lady of Rohan, it may be we shall meet again beyond the Shadows." He kissed her cold brow then turned and left her, careful not to look back.


	26. Departure

If the new King's new esquire hadn't known from his own experience it was customary for Women to arm Men for war Pippin might have shut the door on Lady Arwen, and her companions when they showed up to help Strider dress, instead he let them in.

All three Women were looking grand and rather solemn in dark gowns glittering with gold and silver. Aragorn, in his shirt and breeches, greeted them without surprise or embarrassment. Of course Lady Arwen was his wife now, and the other two, Lady Idril and Lady Laebeth, were some kind of relations. Besides Men aren't Hobbits they have their own ways - and very odd some of them are too!

It was just as well the ladies had come for they knew how all the bits and pieces went on, which was more than Pippin did. He made himself useful by handing the pieces to them - at least he remembered from his own arming the order in which the things were supposed to go on.

For some reason Strider wasn't going to wear the kind of plate armor that seemed usual in Gondor instead the ladies put a shirt and a sort of long skirt of black mail upon him, then fastened some scaly bits of silver-steel plate inlaid with gold and engraved with feathers and trees in the usual Gondorian fashion to his shoulders and upper arms.

A sleeveless red velvet robe went over the armor, and a black leather surcoat embroidered on the chest with the tree and stars went over that. Then Lady Arwen buckled a pair of tooled black leather vambraces decorated with the feather and star crest of the Kings in silver steel onto Aragorn's arms, while the other two fastened similar plates to his boots.

After that Arwen took the swordbelt, with Narsil and the Elven knife hanging from it, out of Pippin's hands and buckled it around Strider's waist. And last of all Idril and Laebeth draped a black cloak lined with dark red over his shoulders, fastening it with the Eagle brooch and a silver pin engraved with the Tree.

Then Lady Arwen made him sit down and combed his hair herself, plaiting two little braids with silver and fastening them at the back of his head to keep the hair from his eyes, which struck Pippin as quite a good idea considering how Aragorn's hair usually behaved.

He picked up the glittering helmet with its adamant star above the noseguard and wide spread seagull wings of real feathers but Strider shook his head, smiling. "Leave that, Pippin, I will not wear it. And leave the shield as well. It will be no use to me and awkward for you to carry."

"To put it mildly." Pippin agreed with some relief. The shield was near as tall as he was, and unwieldy with it.

Aragorn rose but before he could go Lady Arwen held up a finger. "Wait, there is one thing more." Turning aside she dug for a moment in a saddle-bag and when she turned back she had a sort of silver ribbon spread across her hands with a big glittering white jewel in its center.

Strider's eyes went wide. "The Elendilmir!"

"Gilya gave it to me to bring to you along with Narsil." she answered, maybe a little defensively.

His brow crinkled in that way he had. "And what else do you have in that saddlebag of yours, the Scepter of Annuminas? Elendil's chair itself?"

"Of course not," she answered, "don't be silly, Estel. Now bend down and let me put this on you."

As he straightened up the jewel caught the light from the window and blazed like a star upon his brow. Pippin felt his breath catch and for a moment Strider didn't look like himself at all but intimidatingly grand and remote, like one of the towering king statues in the Hall.

Lady Arwen smiled like the sun coming out and said something in Elvish: "Onan-i-Estel Edain."

Aragorn's face changed. "U-chebin estel anim." he answered, almost harshly. Then he took his wife's hands in his and said: "Arwen -" in a tone that told Pippin this would be a very good time to make himself scarce. He put down the helmet and headed for the door, the other two ladies right at his heels.

Outside the door Idril got down on her knees and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Peregrin."

"For what?" he asked in surprise.

"For not letting me part from my father in anger."

He broke into a relieved smile. "Then you're not angry with Lord Denethor any more?"

She smiled back, a bit ruefully. "A little. But his life was more than its ending. I will try to remember the good years not the bad. And thanks to you I need not reproach myself over our parting as poor Faramir must. I am grateful."

"You're welcome." said Pippin.

As he followed the two Women through the Great Hall Pippin saw that Denethor's black throne at the foot of the dais had been taken away somewhere. Then they passed through the open doors into the Court of the Fountain to find it full of armed Men. Not the whole army of course, just the Captains and their personal guards.

Lord Hurin stood on the steps talking to King Eomer and Prince Imrahil with Merry behind them, listening intently. Lady Idril's four women were grouped nearby, one holding a tall pitcher and the other a large goblet. Idril joined them but Lady Laebeth, who was Hurin's wife, went down the steps to talk to the young Man holding Aragorn's banner.

Pippin himself headed straight for his companions. Gandalf, Gimli and Legolas were standing with Strider's Northern Rangers, who looked very plain and plebian in their dark grey cloaks and unadorned leather and mail next to the splendid silver-steel armor and gold broidered black cloaks of the new King's Guard. Not to mention the elegant blue and silver of the Knights of Dol Amroth and the colorful leather and gilt armor of the Rohirrim. Not that they cared a jot, as far as Pippin could see, any more than Strider himself had minded wearing his shabby old leathers at the Court of Edoras.

Beregond was standing with them as well, along with Mistress Hiril. Baradis and Berethil were there too but they weren't paying any attention to their brother, instead they were talking earnestly to Lady Arwen's twin brothers.

"They seem to have a lot to say to each other." Pippin observed, interested.

"Yes." said Mistress Hiril in a tone he recognized. He'd heard it from his mother when she'd seen his sisters chatting up somebody she didn't approve of.

"I'm sure it's just business. The healing art and all that." he said hastily.

"I hope so." Hiril said grimly. "We shall see when you return."

Pippin let out a gusty sigh of relief. "At last somebody who thinks we'll be coming back! I must say all the gloom and doom these last days has had my heart right down in my toes."

Beregond smiled down at him. "I doubt that, Peregrin, yours is not a heart easily cowed. For myself I have no fears at all, not with an experienced campaigner like you to look after me."

The Hobbit blushed. "That was just Strider - I mean the King's - little joke. Anyway," he continued to Hiril, "you were right about the siege so I believe you about this too."

"Thank you, Peregrin." she answered. "See if you can convince my husband. After all these years he still hasn't learned I am always right."

"Well I'd think he'd have noticed that -" Pippin was beginning when Aragorn and Arwen appeared under the arch of the doors and the Men raised a cheer.

Strider and the other Captains descended the steps to stand with their squires and chief officers beneath their banners. Pippin joined Aragorn, his cousin Halladan who headed the Rangers, and Siriondil the Gondorian captain of the new King's Guard beneath the Tree and Stars.

The maid holding the pitcher poured wine into the great cup held by her companion, who handed it to Idril who passed it in turn to the new Queen. She carried it to each Captain, Eomer first, then Imrahil and finally Aragorn, and they drank from it one by one as did those standing by them including, last of all, Pippin himself.

Lady Arwen took the cup back from him and addressed them all, not in Elvish but in plain common speech: "We part but for a time. Fare you well until we meet again." which sounded like she thought they'd be coming back too.

Pippin certainly hoped she and Hiril were right.

After bowing to the Queen they all trooped down the steps of the tunnel to the sixth circle and mounted their horses in the stable yard there.

"Here Pippin my lad, you ride with me." Gandalf said smiling. "Shadowfax and I would be lonely without our familiar third."

Pippin saw Eomer had Merry mounted behind him as the party arranged themselves in marching order with Strider and the other Captains at the front, along with the remaining members of the Fellowship of the Ring.

Pippin cleared a dry throat and said as brightly as he could: "Where are we going?"

Eomer and Imrahil stared at him in astonishment but his companions got the joke. Aragorn smiled wryly, and Legolas kindly, and Gimli gave a little snort of laughter. Gandalf rolled his eyes histrionically, but Merry heaved a long suffering sigh and said with exaggerated patience: "Mordor, Pip, just like before."

"Oh, right." said Pippin, well pleased to have wiped that grim look off Strider's face, even for an instant, and trying to ignore the way his palms were sweating under his gloves and the gone feeling in his belly. "I remember now."

And so he rode out of Minas Tirith with a joke on his lips. A very different Hobbit from the one who had ridden in a bare week ago.

TO BE CONTINUED ....In the sequel 'The Black Gates'. Coming eventually ;)


End file.
